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POEMS 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 



(Sompltte 



WITH AN ORIGINAL MEMOIR 




NEW YORK 
W. J. WtDDLETON. PUBLISHER 

M.DCCO.LXIX. 







Entered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1868, 

BY W. J. WIDDLETON 

In tlie Clerli's Office of the Uistrict Court for the Southerh District 
of New York. 



ALVOKD, PRINTEll. 




PREFACE TO THE POEMS. 



TuESE trifles are collected and republished chiefly 
with a view to their redemjjtion from the many improve- 
ments to which they have been subjected while going 
at random " the rounds of the press." I am naturally 
anxious that what I have written should circulate as I 
v/rote it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own 
taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say that 
I think nothing in this volume of much value to the 
public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be 
controlled have prevented me from making at any time 
any serious eSbrt in what, under happier circumstances, 
would have been the field of my choice. With me 
poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion ; and the 
passions should be held in reverence ; they must not — 
they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the pal- 
try compensations, or the more paltry commendations 
of mankind. 

E. A. P. 



(■■■) 



CONTENTS, 



FAOE. 

Preface to the Poems, 5 

Contents, 7 

Memoir of Edgar Allan Poe, . . .11 

The Raven, 43 

Lenore, . •. 53 

Hymn, 56 

A Valentine, 57 

The Coliseum, 59 

To Helen, 62 

To , 66 

CTlalume, . .68 

The Bells, 73 

An Enigma, 79 

Annabel Lee, ...... 80 



CONTENTS. 



To My Mother, 

The Haunted Palace, . 

The Conqueror "Worm, 

To F s S. D., 

To One in Paradise, 

The Valley of Unrest, 

The City in the Sea, 

The Sleeper, 

Silence, . . . . 

A Dream within a Dream, 

Dreamland, 

To Zante, 

Eulalie, . . . . 

Eldorado, 

Israfel, . . . • 

For Annie, . 

To , . . . . 

Bridal Ballad, 

To F , 

Scenes from " Politian," 
Sonnet — To Science, 
Al Aaraaf, . 

To THE ElVER , . 

Tamerlane, . 



83 

84 

. 87 

89 

90 

92 

, 94 

97 

101 

102 

104 

107 

108 

110 

112 

116 

122 

123 

125 

127 

183 

184 

205 

206 



CONTENTS. 7 

To 219 

A Dream, 220 

Romance, . , 222 

Fairy-Land, 224 

The Lake— To 227 

Song, 229 

To M. L. S , 231 

Notes to Al Aaraaf, 232 

The Poetic Principle, 245 



MEMOIR 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 



7>< 



MEMOIR 



OP 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 



It would be well for all poets, perhaps, if noth- 
ing more were known of their lives than 
what they infuse into their poetry. Too close 
a knowledge of the weaknesses and errors of 
tlie inspired children of Parnassus cannot but 
impair, in some degree, the delicate aroma of 
their songs. The inner life of the poet — the 
secrets of his inspiration, the mysterious pro- 
cesses by which his pearls of thought are pro- 

(11) 



12 MEMOIR Of 

duced — can never be made known ; and the 
accidents of his daily life have bnt little more 
interest than those Avhich fall to common men. 
Under all circumstances the poet is a mys- 
tery, and the utterances of his fancy are but 
the drapery of the veiled statue, which still 
leaves the figure itself unknown. A dissection 
of the song-bird gives us no insight into the 
secret of his melodious notes. Some of the 
great modern poets have had their whole lives 
exposed with minute accuracy; but in what 
are we the wiser for the knowledge we have 
obtained of them ? We only know they lived 
and suffered like other men ; and their inspira- 
tions are still a cause of wonder and delight 
The subtle secret of their power is still hidden 
from our search ; and though we know more 



EDGAE ALLAN POE. 13 

of the daily habits of the men, we know no 
more of the hidden power of the poet. But 
there is still a yearning to know how the men 
lived, whose genius has charmed and instruct- 
ed us; and a vague feeling exists that, in 
probing the lives of poets, we may learn some- 
thing of the art by which they produced their 
works. But it is like the useless labor of Rey- 
nolds, who scraped a painting by Titian, to 
learn the secret of his coloring. 

Of all the poets whose lives have been a 
puzzle and a mystery to the world, there is 
no one more difficult to be understood than 
Edgar Allan Poe. It is impossible to carry 
in the mmd a double idea of a man, and to 
believe him to be both a saint and a fiend; 
yet such is the embarrassinent felt by those 



14 MEMOIR OF 

who have first read the poems of tliis strange 
being, and then read any of tlie biographies 
of him which pretend to anytliing like an 
accurate account of liis Ufe. Lilve his own 
liaven, he is to his readers, " bird or liend" — 
they know not Avhich. But a close study of 
his works will reveal the fact, which may serve 
in some degree to remove this embarrassment, 
that there is nowhere discoverable in them a 
consciousness of moral resi^onsibUity. They 
are full of the subtleties of passion, of grief, 
despair and longing, but they contain nothing 
that indicates a sense of moral rectitude. 
They are the productions of one whose reli- 
gion was a worship of the Beautiful, and who 
knew no beauty but that which was purely 
sensuous. There were but two kinds of beauty 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 15 

for hiiu, and they were Form and Color. Tie 
revelled in an ideal world of perfect shows, 
and was made wretched by any imperfections 
of art. The Lenore whose loss he deplores 
was a being fair to the eye— ^a beaiitiful 
creature, like Undine, without a soul. With 
this key to the character of the poet, there 
is no difficulty in fully comprehending the 
strange inconsistencies, the basenesses and 
nobleness which his wayward life exhibited. 

Some of the biographers of Poe have been 
harshly judged for the view given of his cha- 
racter; and it has naturally been supposed 
that private pique has led to the exaggeration 
of his personal defects. But such imputations 
are unjust. A truthful delineation of his 
career would give a darker hue to his charac- 



16 MEMOIR OF 

ter than it has received from any of his bio- 
graphers. In fact, he has been more fortunate 
than most poets in his historians. Lowell and 
Willis have sketched him with gentleness, and 
a reverent feeling for his genius ; and Gris- 
wold, his literary executor, in his fuller bio- 
graphy, has generously suppressed much that 
he might have given. This is neither the 
proper time nor place to write a full history of 
this unhappy genius. Those who scan his 
marvellous poems closely may find therein the 
man, for it is impossible for the true poet to 
veil himself from his readers. What he writes 
he is. 

The waywardness of Poe was an inheritance. 
Though descended from a family of great 
respectability, his immediate parents were dis- 



£a)(JAR ALLAN POE. 17 

solute in their morals, and members of a pro- 
fession wliich always begets irregularity of 
habits. The paternal grandfather of the poet 
was a distinguished officer in the Maryland 
line during the war of the Revolution ; and 
his great-grandtather, John Poe, married a 
daucrhter of Admiral McBride, of the British 
Navy. His father, the fourth son of the Rev- 
olutionary officer, was a native of Maryland, 
and studied for the bar, but becoming enam- 
ored of a beautiful actress, named Elizabeth 
Arnold, he abandoned the law, and adopted 
the stage as a profession. They lived together 
six or seven years, wandermg from theatre to 
theatre, when they both died within a very short 
time of each other, in Richmond, Virginia, 
leaving three children in utter destitution. 



J 8 MEAIOIR OF 

Edgar, the second child, who was born in Bal- 
timore, in January, 1811, was a remn.rkably 
bright and beautiful boy ; and he attracted 
the attention of a wealthy merchant in Rich- 
mond who had known his jiarents, and who 
had no children of his own. Mr. Allan adopted 
the little orphan, and he was afterwards cnlled 
Edgar Allan. The precocious child was petted 
by his adopted parents, who took priilo in his 
forwardness and beauty ; he was sent to the 
best schools, and was regarded as the heir to 
their property. In 1816, Mr. and ^ilrs. Allan 
made a journey to Europe, and Edgar accom- 
panied them. lie was placed at the school of 
the Rev. Dr. Bransby, at Stoke Newington, 
near London, where he remained some four or 
five years ; but all we know of him during this 



EDGAR AI.T.AN POP]. 19 

period of his life, is what he has himself told 
us in the tale entitled " William Wilson," 
wherein he describes with great minuteness 
his recollections of his school-days in England, 
and gives a characteristic picture of the school- 
house and its surroundings. 

On his return to the United States, in the 
year 1822, he was placed for a few months at 
an academy at Richmond, and then was trans- 
ferred to the University of Virginia, at Char- 
lottesville. The students at Charlottesville 
were noted at that time for then* reckless 
and dissolute manner of life, and young Poe 
was the most dissolute and reckless among 
them. Though extremely slight in person, 
and almost eifeminate in his manner, he is 
represented to have been foremost in all 



20 MEMOIR OF 

athletic sports and games ; and there is good 
testimony to his having performed the almost 
impossible feat of swimming, for a wager, from 
Richmond to Warwick, a distance of seven 
miles, against a current of two or three knots 
an hour. Notwithstanding his dissolute habits 
and extravagance at the university, he excelled 
in his studies, was always at the head of his 
class, and would doubtless have graduated 
with honor, had he not been expelled on 
account of his profligacy and wild excesses. 

His allowance of money had been liberal at 
the University, but he quitted it in debt ; and 
when his indulgent friend refused to accept 
his drafts, to meet his gambling losses, Poe 
wrote him an abusive letter, and quitted the 
country with the design of offering his services 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 21 

to the Greeks, who were then fighting for 
their emancipation from the Turks. But he 
never reached Greece, and all that is known 
of his career in Europe is, that he found him- 
self in St. Petersburgh, in extreme destitution, 
Avhere the American minister, Mr. Middleton. 
was called upon to save him from arrest, on 
account of an indiscretion. Through the kind 
oiRces of this gentleman the young adventurer 
was sent home to America ; and, on his arrival 
at Richmond, Mr. Allan received him with 
kindness, forgave him his past misconduct, and 
procured him a cadetship in the United States 
Military Academy at West Point. Unfortu- 
nately for him, just before he left Richmond 
foT his new appointment, Mrs. Allan, the wife 
of his benefactor, died. She had always 



22 MEMOIR OF 

treated him with motherly aftcctioii, and ho 
had paid more deference to her than to any 
one else. At West Point he applied himself 
with great energy and success for awhile to his 
new course of studies ; but the rigid discipline 
of that institution ill sorted with the irrepressi- 
ble recklessness of his nature, and after ten 
months he was ignominiously expelled. 

After leaving " the Point," he returned to 
Richmond, and was again kindly received and 
welcomed to his home by Mr. Allan. But 
there was a change in the house where the 
wayward boy had been a pet. There was a 
new and a younger mistress. Mr. Allan had 
taken a second wife — a lady much younger 
than himself, and who was disposed to triat 
the expelled cadet as a son. But he soon con- 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 23 

trived to quarrel with her, and was compelled 
to abandon the house of his adopted father, 
never to return. The cause of the quarrel 
which led to this final disruption between Poe 
and his generous patron has been variously 
stated ; the femily of Mr. Allan give a version 
of it which throws a dark shade on the cha- 
racter of the poet. But let it have been as it 
may, it must have been of a very grave nature, 
for, on the death of Mr. Allan, shortly after, 
in 1834, the name of his adopted son, who, it 
was supposed, would inherit nearly all his 
wealth, was not mentioned in his will. 

On leaving the house of his benefactor for 
the last time, Poe was left without a friend, 
and thrown upon his own resources. He had 
published a volume of poems in Baltimore, 



24 MEMOIR OF 

just after his expulsion from West Point, 
under the title of "Al Aaraaf," and " Tamer- 
lane," to which a few smaller poems were 
added. These were the production of his 
early youth — probably between his fifteenth 
and sixteenth years, though the exact date of 
their composition cannot be ascertained. The 
commendations bestowed u^dou these preco- 
cious poems encouraged him to devote himself 
to literature as a profession. But his first 
attempts to earn a living by writing must 
have been discouraging, for soon after publish- 
uig his first volume, he was driven by his 
necessities to enlist as a private soldier in the 
army. Here he was recognized by officers 
who had knowni him at West Point, and who 
mtei'ested themselves to obtain his discharge, 



EDGAR ALLAN POE, 25 

aud, if possible, a commission. But theiv kind 
intentions were frustrated by his desertion. 
The next attempt he made in literature proved 
more successful. He had fruitlessly tried to 
find a publisher for a volume of stories ; but, on 
a premium of one hundred dollars for a tale in 
prose, and a similar reward for a poem, being 
offered by the publisher of a literary periodical 
in Baltimore, Poe was awarded both prizes, 
though he was only allowed to retain the prize 
for the tale, as it was thought not prudent to 
give both prizes to the same writer. The tale 
chosen was the " Manuscript found in a Bot- 
tle," a composition which contains many of his 
most marked peculiarities of style and inven- 
tion. The award was made in October, 1833, 
and, fortunately for the young author, there 



26 MEMOIR OF 

was cue gentleman on the committee who 
made the decision, who had it in liis power to 
render him essential service. 

This was John P. Kennedy, tlie novelist, au- 
thor of " Horse-shoe Robinson," and eminent as 
a lawyer and a statesman. To this gentleman 
Poe came, on hearing of his success, poorly clad, 
pale, and emaciated. He told his story and his 
ambition, and at once gained the confidence and 
affection of the more prosperous author. lie 
was in utter want, and had not yet received 
the amount to which he was entitled for hia 
story. Mr. Kennedy took him by the hand, 
furnished him with means to render him imme- 
diately comfortable, and enabled hiui to make 
a respectable appearance, and in a short time 
afterwards procured for him a situation, as 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 27 

editor of the "Literary JMessenger," a monthly 
magazine, published in Richmond. In his 
new place he continued for awhile to work 
Avith great industry, and wrote a great number 
of reviews and tales; hut he fell into his old 
habits, and, after a debauch, quarrelled with 
the proprieior of the "Messenger," and was 
dismissed. 

It was one of the strange peculiarities of 
Poe, to make humble and penitent appeals for 
forgiveness and reconciliation to those he had 
oli'ended by his abuse and insolence ; ami he 
was no sooner conscious of his error in quar- 
relling Avith the publisher of the " Messenger," 
than be endeavored to regain the position he 
had lost. He was successful ; and though he 
often fell into his old habits, yet he retained 



28 MEMOIE OF 

bis connection witli the work until January, 
1837, wlien he abandoned tlie " Messenger," 
and left Richmond for N"e\v York, During 
his last residence in Richmond, while working 
for a salary of ten dollars a week, lie married 
his cousin, Virginia Clemm, a young, amiable 
and gentle girl, without fortune or friends, 
and as ill-calculated as himself to buttet the 
waves of an adverse fortune. In New York 
he wrote for the literary j^eriodicals, but soon 
icmoved to Philadelphia, where he was em- 
|)loyed as editor of "Burton's Gentleman's 
Magazine." He continued but a year in his 
post ; and, after several quarrels with the pro- 
prietor of the magazine, left liim, to establish 
a magazine of his own. To have a magazine 
of" his own, which ho could manage ns he 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 29 

pleased, was always the great ambition of his 
life. He had invented a title, selected a 
motto, written the introduction, and made the 
entire plans for the great work, which was to 
be called " The Stylus ; " it was the chimera 
which he nursed, the castle in the air Avhich he 
longed for, the rainbow of his cloudy hopes. 
But he did not succeed in establishing it then, 
and was soon installed as editor of " Graham's 
Magazine." As a matter of course he quar- 
relled with Graham, and then went to New 
York, where he engaged as a sub-editor on 
the " Mirror," a daily paper, of which IST. P. 
Willis was the editor. But he did not re- 
main long at this employment, which was 
wholly unsuited to hun, and he left the "Mir- 
ror " without quarrelling with the proprie- 



80 MEMOIR OF 

tor. During his engagements on these dif- 
ferent periodicals, he had written some of his 
finest prose tales ; had published an anony- 
mous work in the style of Robinson Crusoe, 
entitled, the " Adventures of Arthur Gordon 
Pym," and a collection of his tales in a volume 
which he called, the " Tales of the Grotesque 
and Arabesque," and gained another prize by 
his story of the " Gold Bug." He was begin- 
ning to be known as a fierce and terrible critic, 
rather than as a poet or writer of tales, when 
the publication of his poem of the "Raven," 
in the "American Review," a New York 
monthly magazine, first attracted the attention 
of the literary world to his singular and pow- 
erful genius. Up to the appearance of thin 
wild fantasy, he had not been geuerally recoj- 



EOGAR ALI.AN POE. 31 

fiized -IS a poet, and had known nothing of 
society. But he became at once a lion, and 
his writings were eagerly sought after by 
publishers. The prospect lay bright before 
him ; he abandoned for awhile the vices which 
so fearfully beset him ; he was living quietly 
in a pleasant and rural neighborhood in West- 
chester, near the city, with his delicate wife 
and her mother, and a brilliant future appeared 
to be in store for him. But he could never 
keep clear from magazuae editing, and he 
joined Mr. C. h\ Briggs in editing the 
" Broadway Journal," a literary weekly peri 
odical ; but the inevitable quarrel ensued, anJ 
this project was abandoned at the end of } 
year. It was while editing the " Broadway 
Journal," that he engaged in a furious onslaught 



32 MEMOIB OP 

upon Longfellow, whom he accused of plagia- 
rizing from his poems, and, at the same time, 
involved himself in numberless disputes and 
quarrels with other authors. But he also 
gained the affection and admiration of many- 
estimable literary people, some of whom he 
alienated by appearing before them when in a 

state of intoxication. He delivered a lecture on 
poetry, but attracted no hearers, and he was 
so chagrined by his disappointment that he fell 
again' into his old habits, and disgusted his 
new friends by his gross misconduct ; he in- 
volved himself in another quarrel with some 
of the literati of Boston, and, to show his con- 
tempt for them, went there and delivered a 
poem in public which he pretended to have 
written in his tenth year. On his retui'n to 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 33 

New York, he Avas again reduced to great 
straits, and in 1848 lie advertised a scries of 
lectures, in order to raise sufficient means to 
put into execution liis long-clierished j^lan of a 
magazine ; but lie delivered only one lecture 
on the Cosmogony of the Universe, which Avaa 
afterwards published under the title of " Eu- 
reka, a prose poem." His wife had died the 
year j^revious, and during her illness he 
was reduced to such extremities, that i^ublic 
appeals, which were generously responded to, 
were made on his behalf by the papers of New 
York. 

Not long after the death of his wife, he 
formed an intimacy with an accomplished lite- 
rary lady of Rhode Island, a widow, and was 
engaged to be married to her. It was to her 



34 MEMOIR OP 

that he addressed the poem, " Annabel Lee.' 
The day was appointed for tlicir marriage; 
but he had, in the meantime, formed other 
plans; and, to disentangle himself from this 
engagement, he visited the house of his affi- 
anced bride, where he conducted himself with 
such indecent violence, that tlie aid of the 
police had to be called in to expel him. This, 
of course, put an end to the engagement. In 
a short tune after, he went to Richmond, and 
there gained the confidence and affections of a 
lady of good family and considerable fortune. 
The day was ajDpointed for their marriage, and 
he left Virginia to return to New York to fulfil 
some literary arrangements previous to the 
consummation of this new engagement. He 
had written to his friends that he had, at 



EDGAR ALLAM POE. 35 

last, a prospect of happiness. The Lost 
Leuore was found. He arrived in Baltimore, 
on his way to the North, and gave his bag- 
gage into the charge of a porter, intending to 
leave in an hour for Philadelj^hia. Steppmg 
into an hotel to obtain some refreshments, he 
met some of his former companions, who in- 
vited him to drink with them. In a liew 
moments all was over with hira. He f; ont 
the night in revelry, wandered out into the 
street in a state of insanity, and was ibund in 
the morning literally dying from exposurt* and 
a single night's excesses. He was taken to a 
hospital, and on the 7th of October, 1849, at the 
age of thirty-eight, he closed his troubled life. 
Three days before, he had left his newly- 
affianced bride, to prepare for their nuptials. 



36 MEMOIR OF 

He lies in a burying-groiind in Baltimore, his 
native city, without a stone to mark the place 
of his last rest. 

In person, Edgar Allan Poe was slight, and 
hardly of the medium height; his motions 
were quick and nervous ; his air was abstract- 
ed, and his countenance generally serious and 
pale. He never laughed, and rarely smiled ; 
but in conversation he was vivacious, earnest 
and respectful ; and though he appeared gen- 
erally under restraint, as though guarding 
against a half-subdued passion, yet his man- 
ners were engaging, and he never failed to 
win the confidence and kind feelings of those 
with whom he conversed for the first time ; 
and there Avere a few, who knew him long and 
intimately, who could never believe that he 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 37 

was ever otherwise than the pleasant, intelli- 
gent, respectful and earnest companion he 
appeared to them. Though he was at times 
so reckless and profligate in his conduct, and 
so indifierent to external proprieties, he was 
generally scrupulously exact in everything he 
did. He dressed with extreme neatness and 
perfectly good taste, avoiding all ornaments 
and everything of a bizarre apj^earance. He 
was painfully alive to all imperfections of art ; 
and a false I'hyme, an ambiguous sentence, or 
even a typographical error, threw him into an 
ecstacy of passion. It was this sensitiveness 
to all artistic imperfections, rather than any 
malignity of feeling, which made his criticism 
so severe, and procured him a host of enemiea 
among persons towards whom he never entei'- 



38 MEMOIK OF 

tained any personal ill-will. He criticised hia 
own productions with the same severity that 
he exercised towards the writings of othei's ; 
and all his poems, though he sometimes repre- 
sented them as offsprings of a sudden inspira- 
tion, were the work of elaborate study. His 
handwriting was always neat and singularly 
uniform, and his manuscripts were invariably 
on long slips of paper, about four inches wide, 
which he never folded, but always made into a 
roll. Nothing that he ever did had the appear- 
ance of haste or slovenliness, and he preserved 
with religious care every scrap he had ever 
written, and every letter he ever received, so 
that he left behind him the amplest materials 
for the composition of his literar}- life. At his 
own request these remnants of his existence 



EDGAR ALLAN POK. 39 

were intrusted to Doctor Griswold, a gentle- 
man with whom he had quarrelled, and had 
lampooned in his lectures. Doctor Griswold 
in a generous spirit accepted the charge, and 
produced, from the papers intrusted to him, 
the best biography of the strange being that 
has been published, which was appended to 
the collection of his works, in four volumes, 
published m New York, by Widdleton. 



POEMS. 



THE EAVEN. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, 
While I pondered, weak and weary. 
Over many a quaint and curious 
Yolume of forgotten lore — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, 
Suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, 
Rapping at my chamber door. 
** 'Tis some visiter I muttered, 

" Tapping at my chamber door — 

Only this and nothing more.' 

Ah, distinctly I remember 
It was in the bleak DecemlDer, 
And each separate dying ember 
Wrought its ghost upon the floor. 



44 THE RAYEN. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow ; — 
Vainly I liad sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — 
Sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden 

Whom the angels name Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain 
Rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic 
Terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating 
Of my heart, I stood repeating, 
" 'Tis some visiter entreating 

Entrance at my chamber door — 
Some late visiter entreating 
Entrance at my chamber door ; 

This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; 
Hesitating then no longer, 
" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly 
Your forgiveness I implore ; 



THE KAVEN. 45 

But the fact is I was napniug, 

And so gently you came rapping, 

-A.nd so faintly you came tapping, 

Tapping at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you" — 

Here I opened wide the door : 

Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, 
Long I stood there wondering, fearii; . 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals 
Ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, 
And the stillness gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken 

Was the whispered word, " Lenore?" 
This I whispered, and an echo 

Murmured back the word, " Lenore I "" — 
Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, 
All my soul within me burning. 
Soon again I heard a tapping 

Something louder than before. 



4f> THE RAVE.V. 

" Surely," said I, " surely that is 

Something at my window lattice : 

Let me see, then what thereat is, 

And this mystery explore — ■ 

Let my heart be still a moment 

And this mystery explore ; — • 

'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter. 
When, with many a flirt and flutter. 
In there stepped a stately Eaven 
Of the saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he ; 
Not a minute stopped or stayed he ; 
But with mien of lord or lady, 

Perched above my chamber door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas 

Just above my chamber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling 
My sad fancy into smiling. 
By the grave and stern decorum 
Of the countenance it wore, 



THE RAVEN. 



47 



" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven. 
Thou," I said, " art sure no craven. 
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven 

Wandering from the Nightly shore- 
Tell me what thy lordly name is 

On the Night's Plutonian shore 1" 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore, " 

Much I marvelled this ungainly 
Fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — 
Little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing 
That no living human being 
Ever yet was blest with seeing 
Bird above his chamber door — 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured 
Bust above his chamber door, 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely 
On that placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in 

That one word he did outpour. 



43 THE RAVKX. 

Nothiug farther then he uttered ; 
Not a feather then he fluttered — 
Till 1 scarcely more than muttered, 
" Other friends havo flown before — 
On the morrow he will leave me, 

As my Hopes have flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken 
By reply so i^ptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters 
Is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master 
Whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster 
Till his songs one burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his Hope that 
Melancholy burden bore 

Of ' Never — ^nevermore.' " 

But the Eaven still beguiling 
AU my sad soul into smiling. 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in 
Front of bird and bust and dour ; 



THE RAVEN. 49 

Then upon th« velvet sinking, 
I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking 

What this ominous bird of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 
Gaunt and ominous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore."' 

This I sat engaged in guessing, 
But no syllable expressing 
To the fowl wliose fiery eyes now 

Burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining. 
With my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining 

That the lamplight gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining 

With the lamplight gloating o'er 

She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 

Then methought the air grew denser, 
Perfumed from an unseen censer 
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 
Tinkled on the tufted floor. 



50 THE BaVEN. 

" Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee- 
By these angels he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe 

From thy memories of Leuore ! 

QuaflP, oh quaff this kind nepenthe. 

And forget this lost Lenore ! " 

Quoth the Eaveu, "Nevermore." 

' Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — 

Prophet still, if bird or devil ! — 
Whether Tempter sent, or whether 
Tempest tossed thee here ashore. 
Desolate, yet all undaunted. 
On this desert land enchanted— 
On this home by Horror haunted— 
Tell me truly, I implore — 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — 
Tell me — tell me, I implore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevei'moru." 

" Prophet I " said I, " thing of evil- 
Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above a^J — 
By that God we both adore — 



THE KAVEN. 51 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden 
If, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden 

Whom the angels name Lenoro — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden 

Whom the angels name Lenore." 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, 
Bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting- 
" Get thee back into the tempest 

And the Night's Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token 
Of that lie thy soul hath spoken! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — 
Quit the bust above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and 
Take thy form from oil" my door I " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, 
Still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas 

Just above my chamber door ; 



52 THE RAVEN. 

And his eyes have all the seeming 
Of a demon's that is dreaming 
And the lamjilight o'er him streaming 
Throws his shadow on the floor 
And my soul from out that shadow 
That lies floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 



L E N R E . 

Ah, broken is the golden bowl ! 

The spirit flowni forever ! 
Let the bell toll ! — a saintly soul 

Floats on the Stygian river ; 
And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear ?- 

Weep now or never more ! 
See ! on you drear and rigid bier 

Low lies thy love, Lenore ! 
Come ! let the burial rite be read — • 

The funeral song be sung ! — 
An anthem for the queenliest dead 

That ever died so young — 
A dirge for her the doubly dead 

In that s'le died so young. 

' Wretches ye loved her for her wealth 
And hated her for her pride, 
And when she fell in feeble health, 
Te blessed her— that she die.! ! 



54 I,ENORE. 

How shall the ritual, then, be read ?— 
The requiem how be sung 

By you — by yours, the evil eye, — 
By yours, the slanderous tongue 

That did to death the innocence 
That died, and died so young ? " 

Peccavimus ; but rave not thus! 

And let a Sabbath song 
Go up to God so solemnly 

The dead may feel no wrong ! 
The sweet Lenore hath " gone before." 

With Hope that flew beside, 
Leaving thee wild for the dear child 

That should have been thy bride — 
For her, the fair and debonair, 

That now so lowly lies, 
The life upon her yellow hair. 

But not within her eyes — 
The life still there upon her hair — 

The death upon her eyes. 

" Avaunt ! to-night my heart is light. 
No dirge will I upraise, 



I.KXORE. 55 

But waft the augel on lior flight 

With a Poeaa of old days ! 
Let no bell toll ! — lest her sweet soul, 

Amid its hallowed mirth, 
Should catch the note, as it doth float 

Up from the damued Earth. 
I'o friends above, from fiends below, 

The indignant ghost is riven — 
From Hell unto a high estate 

Far up within the Heaven — 
From grief and groan to a golden throne 

Beside the Kmg of Heaven." 



H Y ]\r N . 

At moru — at uoon — at twiliglit dim — 
Maria ! tliou hast heard my hymn ! 
In joy aud wo — in good and ill — 
Mother of God, be with me still ! 
When the hours flew brightly by, 
And not a cloud obscured the sky, 
My soul, lest it should truant be. 
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee ; 
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast 
Darkly my Pr&<?ent and my Past, 
Let my Future radiant shine 
Wilh sweet hopes of thee and thine ! 



\ VALENTINE. 

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes, 

Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda, 
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies 

Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader. 
Search narrowly the lines ! — they hold a treasure 

Divine — a talisman — an amulet 
Tliat must be worn at heart. Search well the measure- 

Tlie words — the syllables ! Do not forsret 
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor ! 

And yet there is in this no Gordian knot 
Which one might not undo without a sabre, 

If one could merely comprehend the plot. 
Eu written upon the leaf where now are peering 

Eyes scintillating soul, there lie per^ hm 
Three eloquent words oft uttered in t)io liearing 

Of poets, by poets — -as the name is a poet's, too. 



58 A VALEXTIXE. 

Its letters, altliough naturally lying 

Like the knight Pinto — Mendez Ferdinando — 

Still form a synonym for Truth. — Cease trying ! 

You will not read the riddle, though you do the best 
you can do. 

[To translate the aJdress, read the ilrst lett.i ci' the first lino i;i 
connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter 
of the third line, the fourth of the ft urth, and so ou lo the end. T.io 
name will thus appear, j 



THE COLISEUM. 



Type of the antique Rome ! Rich reliquary 
Of lofty contemplation left to Time 
By buried centuries of pomp and power I 
At length — at length — after so many days 
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, 
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie) 
I kneel, an altered and an humble man. 
Amid thy thadows, and so drink within 
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom and glory ! 

Vastness ! and Age ' and Memories of Eld ! 
Silence ! and Desolation ! and dim Night ! 
I feel ye now — I feci ye in your strength — 
spells more sure than e'er Judaean king 
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemaue ! 
charms more potent than the rapt Clialdee 
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars I 



00 THE (ULISEUM. 

Here, where a Ivto fell, a column falls ! 

Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, 

A miduight vigil holds the swarthy bat ! 

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair 

Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle ! 

Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled. 

Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home. 

Lit by the wan light of the horned moon. 

The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! 



But stay ! these walls — these ivy-clad arcades — 
These mouldering plinths — these sad and bkckened 

shafts — 
'I'hese vague entablatures — this crumbling frieze— 
These shattered cornices — this wreck — this ruin — 
These stones — alas ! these gray stones — are they all — 
All of the famed, and the colossal left 
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me ? 



Not all " — the Echoes answer me — " not all ' 
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever 
Prom us. and from nil Ruin, unto tlie wise, 
As raflouv from M Mun'Mi to the Sun. 



THE COLISEUM. 61 

We riile the hearts of mightiest men — we rule 
With a despotic sway all giant minds. 
We are not imjjotent — we pallid stones. 
Not all our power is gone — not all our fame- 
Not all the magic of our high renown — 
Not all the wonder that encircles us — 
Not all the mysteries that in us lie — 
Not all the memories that hang upon 
And cling around about us as a garment, 
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory ' 



TO HELEN. 

I SAW thee once — once only — years ago t 

I must not say hoiv many — but not many. 

It was a July midnight ; and from out 

A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, 

Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven. 

There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, 

With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, 

Upon the upturned faces of a thousand 

Eoses that grew in an enchanted garden, 

Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe — 

Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 

That gave out, in return for the love-light. 

Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death — 

Fell on the upturned faces of these roses 

That smiled and died in this parterre enchanted 

By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. 



TO HEUKN. 63 

Clad all in white, upon a violet bank 

I saw thee half reclining ; while the moon 

Fell on the upturned faces of the roses, 

And on thine own, upturned — alas, in sorrow I 



Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight — 

Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,) 

That bade me pause before that garden-gate, 

To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses ? 

No footstep stirred : the hated world all slept, 

Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven ! — oh, God I 

How my heart beats in coupling those two words !)— 

Save only thee and me. I paused — I looked — 

And in an instant all things disappeared. 

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted !) 

The pearly lustre of the moon went out : 

The mossy banks and the meandering paths. 

The happy flowers and the repining trees. 

Were seen no more : the very roses' odors 

Died in the arms of the adoring airs. 

All — all expired save thee — save less than thou ; 

Save only the divine light in thine eyes — 

Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. 



64 TO HELEN. 

I saw but tbera — they were the world to me. 
I saw but them— saw only them for hours- - 
Saw only them until the moon went down. 
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten 
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres ! 
How dark a wo ! yet how sublime a hope ! 
How silently serene a sea of pride I 
How daring- an ambition ! yet how deep-— 
How fathomless a capacity for love ! 



But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sijrlit, 
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud ; 
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees 
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. 
They would not go — they never yet have gone. 
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, 
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. 
They follow me — they lead me through the years. 
They are my ministers — yet I their slave. 
Their office is to illumine and enkindle — 
My duty, to be saved by their bright light, 
And purified In their electric fire, 
A.nd sanctified in tlicir cly.^iau fire 



TO HELEN. (5") 

They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,) 
And are far up in Heaven — the stars 1 kneel to 
In the sad, silent watches of my night ; 
While even in the meridian glare of day 
I see them still — two sweetly scintillaut 
Venuses; unextinguished by the suu ! 



TO 



Not long ago, the writer of these lines,' 

In the mad pride of intellectuality, 

Maintained " the power of words " — denied that ever 

A thought arose within the human brain 

Beyond the utterance of the human tongue : 

And now, as if in mockery of that boast, 

Two words — two foreign soft dissyllables — 

Italian tones, made only to be murmured 

By angels dreaming in the moonlit " dew 

That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermou hill," — 

Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, 

Untb ought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, 

Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions 

Than even seraph harper, Israfel, 

(Who has " the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,") 

Could hope to utter. And T ! my spells arc broken. 



TO . 07 

The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. 

With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, 

I cannot write — I cannot speak or think — 

Alas, I cannot feel ; for 'tis not feeling. 

This standing motionless upon the golden 

Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, 

Gazing, entranced, aduwn the gorgeous vista, 

And thrilling as I see, upon the right. 

Upon the left, and all the way along, 

Amid unpurpled vapors, far away 

To where the prospect terminates — thee only. 



ULALUME. 



The skies they were ashen and sober ; 

The leaves they were crisped and sere — 

The leaves they were witheriug and svvg , 
It was night in the lonesome October 

Of my most immemorial year ; 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 

In the misty mid region of Weir — 
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir 

Here once, through an alley Titanic, 

Of cypress, 1 roamed with my Soul — 
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 

These were days when my heart was volcauir 
As the scoriae rivers that roll — 



ULALUME. 69 

As the lavas that restlessly roll 
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 

In the ultimate climes of the pole — 
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 

In the realms of the boreal pole. 



Our talk had been serious and sober, 

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere— 
Our memories were treacherous and sere — 

For we knew not the month was October, 

And we marked not the night of the year — 
(Ah, night of all nights in the year ! ) 

We noted not the dim lake of Auber — 

(Though once we had journeyed down here)— 

Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, 

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 



And now, as the night was senescent, 
And star-dials pointed to morn — 
As the star-dials hinted of morn- 

A.t the end of our path a liquescent 
And nebulous lustre was born, 



70 ULA.LUMH. 

Out of which a miraculous orescent 
Arose with a duplicate horn — 

Astarte's bediamonded crescent 

Distinct with its duplicate horn. 



And I said — " She is warmer than Bian : 
She rolls through an ether of sighs — 
She revels in a region of sighs : 

She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 

And has come past the stars of the Lion, 
To point us the path to the skies — 
To the Lethean peace of the skies — 

Come up, in despite of the Lion, 

To shine on us with her bright eyes — 

Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
With love in her luminous eyes." 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 

Said — " Sadly this star I mistrust — 
Her pallor I strangely mistrust ; — 

Oh. hasten ! — oh, let us not linger ! 

Oh, flv ! — let us flv I — for we must." 



ULAJ>UJJ E. 71 

In terror she spoke, letting sink her 

Wings until they trailed in the dust — 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 

Plumes till they trailed in the dust — 
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

I replied — " This is nothing but dreaming : 

Let us on by this tremulous light ! 

Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming 

With Hope and in Beauty to-night : — 

See ! — it flickers up the sky through the night ! 
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming. 

And be sure it will lead us aright. 
We safely may trust to a gleaming 

That cannot but guide us aright. 

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 
And tempted her out of her gloom — 
And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 

And we passed to the end of the vista. 

But were stopped by the door of a tomb — 
By the door of a legended tomb ; 



72 ULALUME. 

And I said — " What is written, sweet sister, 
On the door of this legended tomb ?" 
She replied — " Ulalume — Ulalume — 
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume ! " 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 

As the leaves that were crisped and sere — 
As the leaves that were withering and sere — 

A nd I cried — " It was surely October 
On this very night of last year 
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here — 
That I brought a dread burden down here — • 
On this night of all nights in the year, 
Ah, what demon has tempted me here ? 

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber — 
This misty mid region of Weir — 

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
This ghonl-hauntcd woodland of Weir." 



THE BELLS 



Hear the sledges with the bells — • 
Silver bells ! 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night ! 
Wliile the stars that overspr inkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bolls, bells, bells— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 



74 THE UKM.S. 



II 



Hear the mellow wedding bells, 

Golden bells ! 

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 

Through the balmy air of night 

How they ring out their delight ! 

From the molten-golden notes. 

And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloata 
On the moon ! 
On, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To th3 swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the rhvminff and the chiming of the bells I 



THE BKl-J^S. ' "-* 



III. 



Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells I 
lu the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor, 
jg-QW — now to sit or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar 
What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitathig air ! 



76 THE BELLS. 

Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging, 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
Tet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling. 
And the \vrangling, 
llow the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells- 
Of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 

IV. 

Hear the tolling of the bells- 
Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night, 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 



THE BELLS. 

And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell r.p in the steeple, 

All alone, 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone. 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stoi;e — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor humai!— 
They are Ghouls : 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Eolls 
A psean from the bells I 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the psean of the bells ! 
And he dances, and he yells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the peean of the bells — 
Of the bells : 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the throbbing of the bells— 



77 



73 THE BEL],!:?. 

Of the bells, bells, bells— 
To the sobbing of the bells ; 

Keeping time, time, time, 
As he knells, knells, knells, 

In a happy Runic rhyme, 
To the rolling of the bells — 

Of the bells, bells, bells— 
To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 



AN E N I G ]St A . 

' Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce. 

" Half an idea in the profounriest sonnet. 

Through all the flimsy things we see at once 

As easily as through a Naples bonnet — 

Trash of all trash ! — how can a lady don it ? 
Y"et heavier far than your Petrarchan stuif — 
Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff 

Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.' 
And, veritably, Sol is right enough. 
The general tuckermanities are arrant 
Bubbles — ephemeral and so transparent — 

But this is, now, — you may depend upon it — 
Stable, opaque, immortal— all by dint 
Of the dear names that lie concealed within 't. 



ANNABEL LEW. 



It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she livpd with no other thought 

Than to \ove and be loved by me. 



I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea : 
But we loved with a love which was more than love- 

I and my Annabel Lee ; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 



ANNA15KL LEE. 81 



And Ibis was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom ))y the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chiiliug 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her highborn kinsman came, 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. 



The angels, not half so happy in heaven. 
Went envying her and me — • 

Yes ! — that was the reason (as all men know, 
In this kingdom by the sea) 

That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
Chiiliug and killing my Annabel Lee. 



But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
Of those who were older than we-— 
Of many fai wiser than we — 
And neither the angels in heaven above. 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
(X,. ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lek : 
C 



82 ANNABKL LEU. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 

And so, all the night-tide, 1 lie down by the side 

Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 
J n the sepulchre there by tlie sea, 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, 

The angels, whisperiug to one another, 
Can find, among their burning terms of io\'e, 

None so devotional as that of " Mother," 
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you — 

Tou who are more than mother unto me, 
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you 

In setting my Virginia's spirit free. 
My mother— -my own mother, who died early, 

Was but the mother of myself ; l)ut you 
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, 

And thus are dearer than the mother 1 knew 
By that infinity with which my wife 

Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. 



THE HAUNTED PALACE. 

In the greenest of our valleys 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its bead. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion — 

It stood there ! 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair ! 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow, 
(This — all this — was in the olden 

Time long ago,) 
And every gentle air that dallied, 

In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 



TUE HAUNTED PALACE. 85 

Wanderers iu that hapjiy valley, 

Through two luminous windows, saw 
Spirits moving musically, 

To a lute's well-tuned law. 
Round about a throne where, sitting 

(Porphyrogene ! ) 
In state his glory well-befitting, 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing, 
In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil thing?, iu robes of sorrow, 

Assailed the monarch's high estate. 
(Ah, let us mourn ! — for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him desolate ! ) 
And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed, 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

or the old time entombed. 



86 THK HAUNTED PALACE. 

And travellers, now, within that valley, 

Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms, that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody, 
While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out forever 

And lauffh — but smile no more. 



THE CONQUEROR WORM, 



Lo ! 'tis a gala night 

Within the lonesome latter years ! 
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight 

In veils, and drowned in tears. 
Sit in a theatre, to pee 

A play of hopes and fears. 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully 

The music of the spheres. 

Mimes, in the form of God on high, 

Mutter and mumble low, 
And hither and thither fly — 

Mere puppets they, who come and go 
At bidding of vast formless things 

That shift the scenery to and fro. 
Flapping from out their Condor wings 

Invisible Wo ! 



88 THE CONQUEROR WOR-M. 

That motley drama — oh, be sure 

It shall not be forgot ! 
With its Phantom chased for evermore, 

By a crowd that seize it not, 
Through a circle that ever returueth in 

To the self-same spot, 
And much of Madness, and more of Sin, 

And Horror the soul of the plot. 

But see, amid the mimic rout 

A crawling shape intrude ! 
A blood-red thing that writhes from out 

The scenic solitude 
It writhes ! — it writhes ! — with mortal pangs 

The mimes become its food, 
And the angels sob at vermin fangs 

In human gore imbued. 

Out — out are the lights — out all ! 

And, over each quivering form. 
The curtain, a funeral pall, 

Comes down with the rush of a storm. 
And the angels, all pallid and wan. 

Uprising, unveiling, affirm 
That the play is the tragedy, " Man," 

And its hero the Conqueror Worm 



TO F S S. D. 

Thou wouldst be loved ?— then let thy heart 

From its present pathway part not ! 
Being everything which now thou art, 

Be nothing which thou art not. 
So with the world thy gentle ways, 

Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
Shall be an endless theme of praise, 

And love — a simple duty. 



TO ONE IN PAKADISE. 



Thou wast that all to me, love, 
For which my soul did pine — 

A green isle in the sea, love, 
A fountain and a shrine, 

All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 
And all the flowers were mine. 



Ah, dream too bright to last ! 

Ah, starry Hope ! that didst arise 
But to be overcast ! 

A voice from out the Future crias, 
' On ! on !" — but o'er the Past 

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies 
Mute, motionless, aghast I 



TO ONE IN PARADISE. 91 

For, alas ! alas ! with me 

The light of Life is o'er ! 
" No more — no more — no more — " 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) 
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree 

Or the stricken eagle soar ! 



And all my days are trances, 
And all my nightly dreams 

Are where thy dark eyo glances, 
And where thy footstep gleams — 

In what ethereal dances, 
By what eternal streams. 



THE VALLEY OF UNREST. 

Once it smiled a sileut dell 
Where the people did not dwell ; 
They had gone unto the wars, 
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, 
Nightly, from their azure towers. 
To keep watch above tlie flowers, 
In the midst of which all day 
The red sun-light lazily lay. 
Now each visiter shall confess 
The sad valley's restlessness. 
Nothing there is motionless- 
Nothing save the airs that brood 
Over the magic solitude. 
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees 
That palpitate like the chill seas 
Around the misty Hebrides ! 



THE VA.LLEY OF UNREST. 93 

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven 

That rustle through the unquiet Heaven 

Uneasily, from morn till even, 

Over the violets there that lie 

In myriad types of the human eye — 

Over the lilies there that wave 

And weep above a nameless grave ! 

They wave :— from out their fragrant topa 

Eternal dews come down in drops. 

They weep : — from off their delicate stem* 

Perennial tears descend in gems. 



THE CITY IN THE SEA. 

Lo ! Death has reared himself a throne 

In a strange city lying alone 

Far down within the dim West, 

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best 

Have gone to tlioir eternal rest. 

There shrines and palaces and towers 

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not ! ) 

Resemble nothing that is ours. 

Around, by lifting winds forgot, 

Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters lie. 

No rays from the hc'^ heaven come down 
On the long night-time of that town ; 
But light from out the lurid sea 
Streams up the turrets silently — 



THE CITY IN THK SEA. 95 

Gleams up the pinuacles far and free — 
Up domes — up spires — up liingly halls — 
Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls — 
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers 
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers — 
Up many and many a marvellous shrine 
Whose wreathed friezes intertwiae 
The viol, the violet, and the vine. 
Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 
So blend the turrets and shadows there 
That all seem pendulous in air, 
While from a proud tower in the town 
Death looks giganticaUy down. 



There open fanes and gaping gi-aves 
Yawn level with the luminous waves ; 
But not the riches there that lie 
In each idol's diamond eye — 
Not the gaily-jeweled dead 
Tempt the waters from their bed ; 
For no ripples curl, alas ! 
Along that M ilderness of glas& - 



96 THE CITY IS THE SJiA. 

No swellings tell that winds may be 
Upon some far-off liaiDi^ier sea — 
No heavings hiut that winds have been 
On seas less hideously serene. 



But lo, a stir is in the air ! 
The wave — there is a movement there I 
As if the towers had thrust aside, 
In slightly sinking, the dull tide — 
As if their tops had feebly given 
A void within the filmy Heaven. 
The waves have now a redder glow — 
The hours are breathing faint and low— 
And when, amid no earthly moans, 
Down, down that town shall settle hence, 
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 
V Shall do it reverence. 



THE SLEEPER. 



At midnight, in the month of June, 
I stand beneath the mystic moon. 
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, 
Exhales from out her golden rim, 
And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 
Upon the quiet mountain top, 
Steals drowsily and musically 
Into the universal valley. 
The rosemary nods upon the grave ; 
The lily lolls upon the wave ; 
Wrapping the fog about its breast. 
The ruin moulders into rest ; 



98 THE SLEEPEK. 

Looking like Letlie, see ! the lake 
A conscious slumber seems to take. 
And would not, for the world, awake. 
All Beauty sleeps! — and lo! where hes 
(Her casement open to the skies) 
Irene, with her Destinies I 



Oh, lady bright ! can it be right — 
This window open to the night ? 
The wanton airs, from the tree-top, 
Laughingly through the lattice drop— 
Tlie borliloKS airs, a wizard rout, 
Flit tbrougli thy chamber in and out. 
And wave the curtain canopy 
So fitfully — so fearfully — 
Above the closed and fringed lid 
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid 
That, o'er the floor and down the wall, 
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall ! 
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear ? 
Why and what art thou dreaming here ? 
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, 
A wonder to these garden trees ! 



THE SJ-KEPEK. 99 

Strange is thy pallor ! strange thy dress ! 
Strange above all, thy length of tress. 
And this all solemn silentness ! 



'J'he lady sleeps ! Oh, may her sleep, 
Which is enduring, so be deep I 
Heaven have her in its sacred keep ! 
This chamber changed for one more holy, 
This bed for one more melancholy, 
I pray to God that she may lie 
Forever with unopened eye, 
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by ! 



My love, she sleeps ! Oh, may her sleep 

A.S it is lasting, so be deep ! 

Soft may the worms about her creep ! 

Far in the forest, dim and old. 

For her may some tall vault unfold — 

Some vault that oft has flung its black 

And winged pannels fluttering back, 

Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, 

Of her grand family funerals — 



100 THE SLEEP£R. 

Some sepulchre, remote, alone, 
Agaiust whose portal she hath thrown, 
In childhood, many au idle stone — 
Some tomb from out whose sounding door 
She ne'er shall force au echo more. 
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin ' 
It was the dead who groaned within. 



SILENCE. 

There are some qualities — some incorporate things. 

That have a double lite, which thus is made 
A type of that twin entity which springs 

From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. 
There is a two-i'old Silence — sea and shore — 
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, 
Newly with grass o'ergrown ; some solemn graces, 
Some human memories and tearful lore. 
Render him terrorless : his name's " No More." 
He is the corporate Silence : dread him not ! 

No power hath he of evil in himself ; 
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot ! ) 

Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, 
'J 'hat haunteth the lone regions where hath trod 
No foot of man,) commend thyself to God ! 



A DREAM AVITHIN A DREAM, 

Take this kiss upon tlie brow ! 

A.nd, in parting from you now, 

Thus much let me avow — 

You are not wrong, who deem 

That my days have been a dream ; 

Yet if hope has flown away 

In a night, or iu a day, 

In a vision, or in none, 

Is it therefore the less gone 7 

All that we sec or seem 

Is but a dream within a dream. 

I stand amid the roar 
Of a surf-tormented shore, 
And I hold within my hand 
Grains of the golden saud — 



A DREAM 'VVTrniN A DREAM. 101^ 

How few ! yet liow they creep 
Through my fingers to the deep, 
While I weep — while I weep ! 
God ! can I can not grasp 
Them witli a tighter clasp ? 
God ! can I not save 
One from the pitiless wave? 
Is all that we see or seem 
But a dream within a dream ? 



D RE A MLaN D. 

By a route obscure and lonely, 
Haunted by ill atigels only, 
Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
On a black throne reigns upright, 
I have reached these lands but newly 
From an ultimate dim Thule — 
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, 
Out of Space — out of Time. 

Bottomless vales and boundless floods, 
And chasms and caves, and Titan woods, 
With forms that no man can discover 
For the dews that drip all over ; 
Mountains toppling evermore 
Into seas n'itlioiit n shore ; 



DREAMLAND. 105 

Seas that restlessly aspire, 
Surging, unto skies of fire ; 
Lakes that endlessly outspread 
Their lone waters — lone and dead^ 
Their still waters — still and chilly 
With the snows of the lolling lily. 

By the lakes that thus outspread 
Their lone waters, lone and dead, — 
Their sad waters, sad and chilly 
With the snows of the lolling lily, — 
By the mountains — near the river 
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, — 
By the gray woods, — by the swamp 
Where the toad and the newt encamp, — 
By the dismal tarns and pools 

Where dwell the Ghouls, — 
By each spot the most unholy — 
In each nook most melancholy, — 
There the traveller meets aghast 
Sheeted Memories of the Past — 
Shrouded forms that start and sigh 
As they pass the wanderer by — 
White-robed forms of friends long given, 
lii agony, to ii.c Karth — aiid lleavec. 



106 DREAMLAND. 

For the heart whose woes are legion 
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region — 
For the spirit that walks in shadow 
'Tis — oh, 'tis an Eldorado ! 
But the traveller, travelling through it, 
May not — dare not openly view it ; 
Never its mysteries are exposed 
To the weak human eye unclosed ; 
So wills its King, who hath forbid 
The uplifting of the fringed lid ; 
And thus the sad Soul that here passes 
Beholds it but through darkened glasses. 

By a route obscure and lonely, 

Haunted by ill angels only, 
Where an Eidolon, named Night, 
On a black throne reigns upright, 
I have wandered home but newly 
From this ultimate dim Thule. 



TO Z A N T K . 

Path islr, that from the fairest of all flowers, 

Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take ! 
How many memories of what radiant hours 

At sight of thee and thine at once awake I 
How many scenes of what departed bliss ! 

How many thoughts of what entombed hopes ! 
How many visions of a maiden that is 

No more — no more upon thy verdant slopes ! 
No more ! alas, that magical sad sound 

Transforming all ! Thy charms shall please 710 more- 
Thy memory no more ! Accursed ground 

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, 
hyacinthine isle ! purple Zante ! 

" Isola doro ! Flor di Levante I " 



EULALIE. 

I DWELT alone 
In a world of moan, 
And my soul was a stagnant tide, 
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie 
Became my blushing bride — 
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie 
Became my smiling bride. 

Ah, less — less bright 
The stars of the night 
Than the eyes of the radiant girl I 
And never a flake 
That the vapor can make 
With the moon-tints of purple and pear!. 
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's 

Most unregarded curl — 
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's 
Afost liunible and careless curl. 



EULiiXlE. 109 

Now Doubt^now Pain 

Come never again, 
For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, 

And all day long 

Shines bright and strong, 
Astarte within the sky, 
While ever to her dear Eulalie • 

Upturns her matron eye — 
While ever to her young Eulalie 
Upturns her violet eye. 



F, L T) R A I) U 



Gaily bedight, 
A gallant knight, 

In sunshine and in shadow, 
Had journeyed long, 
Singing a song. 

In search of i^ldorado. 



But he grew old — 
This knight so bold — 

And o'er his heart a shadow 
Fell as he found 
No spot of ground 

That looked like Eldorado. 



ELDORADO. Ill 

And, as his strength 
Failed him at length, 
He met a pilgrim shadow — 
" Shadow," said he, 
" Where can it be— 
This land of Eldorado?" 



" Over the Mountains 
Of the Moon, 

Down ths Valley of the Shadow, 
Ride, boldly ride," 
The shade replied, — 

■ If you seek for Eldorado I " 



ISR AFEL.» 



In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 

" Whose heart-strings are a lute ; " 

None sing so wildly well 

As the ang<jl Israfel, 

And the giddy stars (so legends tell) 

Ceasing thcxf hymns, attend the spell 
Of his voice, all mute. 



* And the angel Isnafol, whose heart-strings are a Into, and who 
has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures. — Koran. 



ISRATKL. 1 13 



Tottering above 

lu her highest noon, 

The enamored moon 
Blushes with love, 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(With the rapid Pleiads, even, 

Which were seven,) 

Pauses in Heaven. 



A.nd they say (the starry choir 
And the other listening things) 

That Israfeli's fire 

Is owing to that lyre 
By which he sits and sings — • 

The trembling living wire 
Of those unusual strings. 



But the skies that angel trod, 
Where deep thoughts are a duty— - 

Where Love's a grown up God — 
Where the Houri glances are 

Imbued with all the beauty 
Which we worship in a star. 
8 



114 ISBAFEL, 

Therefore thou art not wrong, 
Israfeli, who despisest 

An unimpassioned song ; 

To thee the laurels belong, 
Best bard, because the wisest! 

Merrily live, and long I 



The ecstasies above 

"With thy burning measures suit — 

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervor of thy lute — 
Well may the stars be mute I 



Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this 
Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
Our flowers are merely — ^flowers, 

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is tlie sunshine of ours 



If I could dwell 
Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 



ISEAFEL. 115 

He might not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody, 
While a bolder note than this might swell 

From my lyre within the sky. 



FOlt ANNIE. 



Thank Heaven 1 the crisis — 

The danger is past, 
And the lingering illness 

Is over at last — 
And the fever called " Living " 

Is conquered at last. 

Sadly, I know 

I am shorn of my strength, 
And no muscle I move 

As I lie at full length — 
But no matter ! — I feel 

I am better at length. 



FOK A>IJS1K. 117 

And I rest so composedly, 

Now, iu my bed, 
That any beholder 

Miglit i'ancy me dead — 
Might start at beholding me. 

Thinking me dead. 

The moaning and groaning, 

The sighing and sobbing, 
A.re quieted now. 

With that horrible throbbing 
At heart : — ah, that horrible, 

Horrible throbbing 1 

The sickness — the nausear-*- 

The pitiless pain — 
Have ceased, with the fever 

That maddened my brain — 
With the fever called " Living " 

That burned in my brain. 

And oh ! of all tortures 

That torture the worst 
Has abated — the terrible 

Torture of thii-st 



118 FOR ANNIE. 

For the napthaliue river 
Of Passion accurst : — 

I have drank of a water 
That quenches all thirst :-- 

Of a water that flows 
With a lullaby sound, 

From a spring but a very few 
Feet under ground — 

From a cavern not very far 
Down under ground. 

And ah ! let it never 

Be foolishly said 
That my room it is gloomy 

And narrow my bed ; 
For man never slept 

In a different bed — 
And, to sleep, you must slumber 

In just such a bed. 

My tantalized spirit 
Here blandly reposes. 



FOR ANNIE. 119 

Forgetting, or never 

Regretting its roses — 
Its old agitations 

Of myrtles and roses : 

For now, while so quietly 

Lying, it fancies 
A holier odor 

About it, of pansies — 
A rosemary odor, 

Commingled with pansies — 
With rue and the beautiful 

Puritan pansies. 

And so it lies happily, 

Bathing in many 
A dream of the truth 

And the beauty of Annie- 
Drowned in a bath 

Of the tresses of Annie. 

She tenderly kissed me, 
She fondly caressed, 



120 FOK ANNIE. 

And then I fell gently 
To sleep on her breast — 

Deeply to sleep 

From the heaven of her breast. 



When the light was extinguished, 

She covered me warm, 
And she prayed to the angels 

To keep me from harm — 
To the queen of the angels 

To shield me from harm. 



And I lie so composedly, 

Now, in my bed, 
(Knowing her love) 

That you fancy me dead — 
And I rest so contentedly, 

Now, in my bed, 
(With her love at my breast) 

That you fancy me dead — 
That you shudder to look at me. 

Thinking me dead : — 



FOR ANNIE. 

But my heart it is brighter 

Than all of the many 
Stars in the sky, 

For it sparkles with Annie- 
It glows with the light 

Of the love of my Annie — 
With the thought of the light 

Of the eyes of my Annie. 



131 



TO 



I HKED not that my earthly lot 

Hath— little of Earth in it— 
That years of love have been forgot 

In the hatred of a minute : — 
I mourn not that the desolate 

Are happier, sweet, than I, 
But that you sorrow for my fate. 

Who am a passer by. 



BRIDAL BALLAD 



The ring is on my hand, 

And the wreath is on my brow ; 
Satins and jewels grand 
Are all at my command, 

And I am happy now. 



And my lord he loves me well ; 

But, when first he breathed his vow 
I felt my bosom swell — 
For the words rang as a knell, 
And the voice seemed his who 'ell 
In the battle down the dell, 

A nd who is happy now. 



124 KRIDAL BALLAD. 

But he spoke to re-assure me, 

And he kissed my pallid brow 
While a reverie came o'er me, 
And to the church-yard bore me, 
And I sighed to him before me, 
Thinking Tiim dead D'Elormie, 
" Oh, I am happy now ! " 



And thus the words were spoken. 
And this the plighted vow. 

And, though my faith be broken, 

And, though my heart be broken, 

Behold the golden token 
That proves me happy now ! 



Would God I could awaken I 

For I dream I know not how I 
And my soul is sorely shaken 
Lest an evil step be taken, — 
Lest the dead who is forsaken 
May not be happy now. 



TO F 



Beloved ! amid the earnest woes 
That crowd around my earthly path— 

(Drear path, alas ! where grows 

Not even one lonely rose) — 
My soul at least a solace hath 

In dreams of thee, and therein knows 

An Eden of bland repose. 

And thus thy memory is to me 
Like some enchanted far-off isle 

In some tumultuous sea — 

Some ocean throbbing far and free 
With storms — but where meanwhile 

Serenest skies continually 
Just o'er that one bright island smile. 



SCENES FROM "POLITIAN;" 



AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA 



SCENES FROM "POLITIAN;" 



AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. 



I. 



ROME. — A Hall in a Palace- Alessandra and Castiguonb. 



AltESSANDRA. 



Thou art sad, Oastiglione. 



CASTIGLIONE. 

Sad !— not I. 
Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Eome ! 
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra, 
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy ! 



130 SCENES FROM "POIITIAN." 



ALESSANDRA. 

Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing 
Thy happiness ! — what ails thee, cousin of mine? 
Why didst thou sigh so deeply ? 



CASTIGLIONE. 

Did I sigh ? 
I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, 
A silly — a most silly fashion I have 
Wlien I am very happy. Did I sigh ? (sffching.) 



ALESSANDBA. 

Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged 
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. 
Late hours and wine, Castiglione, — these 
Will ruin thee ! thou art already altered— 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 131 

Thy looks are haggard — nothing so wears away 
The constitution as late hours and wine. 



CASTIGLIONE (ffltiSmg-). 

Nothing, fair cousin, nothing — not even deep sorrow- 
Wears it away like evil hours and wine. 
I will amend. 



ALESSANDRA. 

Do it ! I would have thee drop 
Thy riotous company, too — fellows low born — 
HI suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir 
And Alessandra's husband. 



CASTIGLIONE. 



I will drop them 



132 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 



ALKSSANDBA. 

Thou wilt — thou must. Attend thou also more 
To thy dress and equipage — they are over plain 
For thy lofty rank and fashion — mucti depends 
Upon appearances. 



CASTIGLIONE. 

I'll see to it. 

ALESSANDRA. 

Theo see to it ! — pay more attention, sir, 
To a becoming carriage — much thou wantest, 
In dignity. 

CASTIGLIONE. 

Much, much, oh much I want 
In proper dignity. 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 133 

AI.ESSANDRA (haughtily). 

Thou mockest me, sir . 

CASTIGLIONE [abstractedly). 
Sweet, gentle Lalage ! 



ALESSANDRA. 

Heard I aright ? 
I speak to him — he speaks of Lalage ! 
Sir Count ! [places her hand on his shoulder) what 

art thou dreaming ? — he's not well ! 
What ails thee, sir ? 



CASTIGLIONE [starting). 

Cousin ! fair cousin ! — madam 
T crave thy pardon — indeed I am not well — 



13-1 SCENES VKOM "POTJTTAN." 

Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. 
This air is most oppressive ! — Madam — the Duke ! 



Miter Di Broglio. 



DI BROGLIO. 

My son, I've news for thee ! — hey ? — what's the 

matter ? {observing Alessandra.) 
I' the pouts ? Kiss her, Castiglione ! kiss her. 
You dog ! and make it up, I say, this minute ! 
I've news for you both. Politian is expected 
Hourly in Rome — Politian, Earl of Leicester ! 
We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit 
To the imperial city. 



ALESSANDRA. 

What! Politian 
Of Britain, Earl of licicester ? 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 135 



DI BROGLIO. 

The same, my love. 
We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young 
In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him. 
But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy 
Preeminent in arts, and arms, and wealth. 
And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding. 



ALESSANDBA. 

I have heard much of this Politian. 
Gay, volatile and giddy — is he not ? 
And little given to thinking. 



DI BROGLIO. 

Far from it, love. 
No branch, they say, of all philosophy 
So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. 
'''earned as few are learned. 



136 SCENES FR05I '' POLITIAN." 



ALESSANDRA. 

'Tis very strange ! 
I have known men have seen Politian 
And sought his company. They speak of him 
As of one who entered madly into life, 
Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs. 



CASTIGLIONE. 

Ridiculous I Now I have seen Politian 

And know him well — nor learned nor mirthful he. 

He is a dreamer and a man shut out 

From common passions. 



DI BROGLIO. 

Children, we disagree. 
Let us go forth aiid taste the fragrant air 
Of the garden. Did I dream, or did 1 hear 
Politian was a melancholy man ? [Exeimt 



SCJSNES FROat "POLITIAN." IS"/ 



II. 



UOJIE. — A Lady's apat'tment, with a window open and looking 
into a garden. Lalacie, i», dee}^ mourning , rending at a table 
on which He some hooka and a hand mirror. In the back- 
ground Jaci>'ta (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a 
chair. 



Jacinta, is it thou ? 



JACiNTA {pertlyy 

Yes, Ma'am, I'm here. 



I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. 
Sit down ! — let not my presence trouble you — 
Rit down ! — for I am humble, most humble. 



138 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 

JACINTA {aside). 

'Tis time. 



(Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner 
upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the 
back, and regarding her mistress with a 
contemptuous look. Lalage continues to 
read.) 



" It in another climate, so he said, 

" Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil !" • 

{pauses — turns over some leaves, and resumes.) 
" No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower — 
" But Ocean ever to refresh mankind 
•' Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind." 
0, beautiful ! — most beautiful ! — how like 
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven ! 
happy land ! {pauses.) She died ! — the maiden died ' 



SCEJS^ES FROM "POLITIAN." 139 

still more ha^jpy maiden who couldst die ! 
Jacinta ! 

(Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage 
•presently resumes) 

Again ! — a similar tale 

Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea ! 

Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play — ■ 

" She died full young " — one Bossola answers him — 

" I think not so — ^her infelicity 

" Seemed to have years too many " — Ah, luckless lady ! 

Jacinta ! [still no answer.) 

Here's a far sterner story, 
But like — oh, very like in its despair — 
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily 
A thousand hearts — losing at length her own. 
She died. Thus endeth the history — and her maids 
Lean over her and weep — two gentle maids 
With gentle names — Eiros and Charmion ! 
Rainbow and Dove ! Jacinta ! 



JACINTA {pettishly). 

Madam, what is it ? 



140 SCENES FROM " POLITIA^"." 



Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind 
As go down in the library and bring me 
The Holy Evangelists. 



JACINTA. 

Pshaw I {Exit. 



If there be balm 
For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there 1 
Dew in the night-time of my bitter trouble 
Will there be found — " dew sweeter far than that 
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill." 

(re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on 
the tabic.) 

There, ma'am, 's the book. Indeed she is very 
tjoublesorae. (Aside. 



SCKNOiS FXtOM " POLITIAJ^." I4i 



LALAGE {astonished). 

What didst thou say, Jaciuta ? Have I dooe aught 
To grieve thee or to vex thee ? — I am soitj. 
For thou hast served me long and ever been 
Trustworthy and respectful, (resumes her reading.) 



JACiNTA (aside), 

I can't believe 
She has any more jewelis — no — no — she gave me all. 



LALAGE. 

Wbat didst thou say, Jacinta ? Now I bethink me 
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. 
How fares lyood Uc:o ? — and when is it to be ? 
Can I do aught '! — is there no farther aid 
Thou noedest, Jacinta ? 



142 SCENES FROM "• POLITIAN " 



Is there no farther aid ! 
That's meant for me [aside). I'm sure, Madam, you 

need not 
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. 



Jewels 1 Jacinta, — now indeed, Jaciuta, 
1 thought not of the jewels. 



Oh ! perhaps not 1 
But then I might have sworn it. After all, 
There's Ugo says the ring is only paste. 
For he's sure the Count Castiglione never 
Would have given a real diamond to such as you , 



SCENES FKOM ''■ POLITIAN." 143 

A.nd at the best I'm certaiu, Madam, you cannot 
Have use for jewels nmv. But I might have sworn it. 

{Exit. 

(Lalage bursts into tears and leans her 
head upon the table — after a short pause 
raises it.) 



Poor Lalage ! — and is it come to this ? 

Thy servant maid ! — but courage ! — 'tis but a viper 

Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul ! 

{Taking up the mirror.) 

Ha ! here at least's a friend — too much a friend 
In earlier days — a friend will not deceive thee. 
Fair mirror and true ! now tell me (for thou canst) 
A tale — a pretty tale — and heed thou not 
Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. 
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, 
And Beauty long deceased — lemembers me 
Of Joy departed — Hope, the Seraph Hope, 



144 SCENES FltOM '' FOLIXIAN." 

InurueJ aud entombed ! — now, in a tone 

Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible. 

Whispers of early grave untimely yawning 

For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true ! — thou liest 

not! 
Thou hast no end to gain — no heart to break — 

Castiglioue lied who said he loved 

Thou true ! — he faise ! — false !- -false ! 

{While she speaks, a monk enters her apaat' 
meat, and approaches unobserved.) 



Refuge thou hast, 
Sweet daughter ! in Heaven. Think of eternal things I 
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray 1 



LALAGE [arising hurriedly). 

I cannot pray ! — ]\ty soul is at war with .God ! 
The frightful sounds of merriment below 
Disturb my senses — go ! I cannot pray — 



SCENES riJOM "PULlTiAX." 145 

Thi iweet airs from the garduo worry me ! 

Thy presence grieves me — go ! — thy j^riestly raiment 

Fi\h me with dread — thy ebouy crucifix 

With horror and awe ! 



Think of thy precious soul ! 



Tliink of my early days ! — think of my father 
And mother in Heaven ! think of our quiet home, 
And the rivulet that ran before the door ! 
Think of my little sisters ! — think of them ! 
And think of me ! — think of my trusting love 
And confidence — his vows — ray ruin — think — think 

Of my unspeakable misery ! begone ! 

Yet stay ! yet stay I — what was it thou saidst of 

prayer 
And penitence ? Didst thou not speak of faith 
\nd vows before the tlirone ? 
10 



14G SCENi:S FKOM " POLIllA-N\" 

MONK- 

I did. 



'Tis weU. 
'I'here ts a vow were fitting should be made — 
A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent, 
A. solemn vow ! 



Daughter, this zeal is well 



Father, this zeal is anything but well ! 
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this Ihinar ! 



SCENES PROM " POLITIAN." 147 

A crucifix whereoii to register 
This sacred vow ? 

[He hands her his owii.) 

Not that— Ob ! no !— no !— no ! 

{Shuddering.) 

Not that ! Not that ! — 1 tell thee, holy man. 
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me ! 
Stand back ! I have a crucifix myself, — 
I have a crucifix ! Methinks 'twere fitting 
The deed — the vow — the symbol of the deed — 
And the deed's register should tally, father ! 

[Draws a cross-handled dagger and raises 
it on high.) 

Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine 
Is written in Heaven ! 



Thy words are madness, daughter, 
And speak a purpose nnholy — thy lips are livid — 



148 SCENES FEOM " POLITIAX." 

Thiue eyes are wild — tempt not the wrath divine ! 
Pause ere too late ! — oh, be not — be not rash! 
Swear not the oath — oh, swear it not ! 



LAI^AGE. 

'Tis sworn ! 



SCEJSTES FROM "■ POLITIAN." 149 



111 



An apartment in a Palace. Poutian and Bald.vz7je. 



BALDAZZAR. 



-Arouse thee now, Politian 



Thou must not — ^nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not 
Give way unto these humors. Be thyself ! 
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee, 
And live, for now thou diest ! 



Not so, Baldazzar ! 
Surihi I live. 



150 SCENES FEOM *' POLITIAX." 



BALDAZZAB. 

Politian, it doth grieve me 
To see thee tlms. 



Baldazzar, it doth grieve me 
To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend. 
Command me, sir ! what wouldst thou have me do 1 
At thy behest I will shake off that nature 
Which from my forefathers I did inherit, 
Which from my mother's milk I did imbibe, 
And be no more Politian, but some other. 
Command me, sir ! 



BAl-DAZZAR. 

To the field, then— to the field— 
To tlie senate or the field. 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 151 



Alas ! alas ! 
There is an imp would follow me even there ! 
There is an imp haili followeil me even there ! 
There is what voice was that ? 



BALDAZZAR. 

I heard it not. 
I heard not any voice except thine own, 
And the echo of thine own. 



POLITIAN. 

Then I but dreamed. 

BMjDAZZAK. 

Give not thy soul to dreams : the camp — tlie court 
Befit thee — Fame awaits thee — Glory calls — 



152 SCENES FllOU "POLITIAX." 

And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear 
In hearkeuiiig to imagioarj sounds 
And phantom voices. 



It is a phantom voice 1 
Didst thou not hear it then 7 



BALDAZZAR. 

I heard it not. 



'I'hou heardst it not ! Baldazzar, speak no more 

To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. 

Oh ! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death, 

Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities 

Of the populous Earth ! Bear with me yet awhile 1 

We have been boys together — schoolfellows — 



8CEJS'ES FnOU "rOLITIAX." 153 

Aiid now are friends — yet shall not be so long — 
For in the eternal city thou shalt do me 
A. kind and gentle office, and a Power — 
A Power august, benignant and supreme — 
Shall then absolve thee of all farther duties 
Unto thy friend. 



BALDA2ZAR. 

Thou speakest a ffearful riddle 
I w)ll not understand. 



Tet now as Fate 
Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low, 
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains, 
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas ! alas ! 
I cannot die, having within my heart 
So keen a relish for the beautiful 
As hath been kindled within it. Mctliinks tlie air 
[h balniior now tliau it av:i,r wnnt to be — 



154 SCENES FKOM " POLITIAN," 

Ricli melodies are floating in the winds — 

A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth — 

And with a holier lustre the quiet moon 

Sitteth in Heaven. — Hist ! hist ! thou canst not say 

Thou hearest not norc, Baldazzar ? 



BALDAZZAR. 



Indeed I hear not. 



Not hear it ! — listen, now ! — listen ! — the faintest soun^ 
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard ! 
A lady's voice ! — and sorrow in the tone ! 
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell ! 
Again ! — again ! — how solemnly it falls 
Into my heart of hearts ! that eloquent voice 
Surely I never heard — yet it were well 
Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones 
In earlier da vs i 



SCENES FKOM " POUTIAN." 155 



BALDAZZAR. 

I myself hear it now. 
Be still ! — the voice, if I mistake not greatly, 
Proceeds from yonder lattice — which you may see 
Very plainly through the window — it belongs, 
Does it not ? unto this palace of the Duke. 
The singer is undoubtedly beneath 
The roof of his Excellency — and perhaps 
Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke 
As the betrothed of Oastiglione, 
His son and heir. 



Be still ! — it comes again ! 



VOICE [very fainthj). 

" And is thy heart so strong 
As fiT to leave me thus 



166 SCENES FROM " POI.ITIAN." 

Who hath loved thee so long 
lu wealth and wo among ? 
And is thy heart so strong 
As for to leave me thus ? 

Say nay — say nay ! 



BALDAZZAR. 

The song is English, and I oft have heard it 
la merry England — never so plaintively — 
Hist ! hist ! it comes again ! 



VOICE {mo7-e loudly). 

" Is it so strong 
As for to leave me thus 
Who hath loved thee so long 
In wealth and wo among ? 
And is thy heart so strong 
A s for to leave me thus ? 

Say nay — say iiay ! ' 



SCEJfES FEOM " roLlTIAK." 157 



BAI.DAZZAR. 

Tis hushed aud all i.s still ! 



Let us 20 down. 



POIJTIAN. 

All is not still ! 

BAIvDAZZAR, 



Go down, Baldazzar, go I 



BALDAZZAR, 



The hour is growing late — the Duke awaits u.?,- 
Thy presence is expected in the hall 

Pk'Iow. AV1i:i1 ails Ihe'j. Earl T'olitinn ' 



158 SCENES FROM " POUTIAN," 



VOICE {(listuictly). 

" Who hath loved thee so long 
In wealth and wo among, 
And is thy heart so strong ? 

Say nay — say nay !" 



BjVLDAZZAR. 

Let us descend ! — 'tis time. Politian, give 
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray, 
rour bearing lately savored much of rudeness 
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee ! and remember ! 



POLITIAN. 

Remember ? I do. Lead on ! I do remember. 

{Going.) 

Let us descend. Believe me I would give, 
Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom 
To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice — 



SCENES FROM " POLITXAN." 159 

" To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear 
Once more that silent tono^ue." 



BALDAZZAR. 

Let me beg you, sir, 
Descend with me — the Duke may be offended. 
Let us go down, I pray you. 



VOICE (loudly). 

Say nay ! say nay ! 

POLITIAN [aside). 

'Tis strange ! — 'tis very strange — methought the voice 
Chimed in with my desires, and bade me stay ! 

{Approaching tlie window^ 

Sweet voice ! I heed thee, and will surely stay. 
Now be this Fancy, by Heaven ! or be it Fate, 



IGO SCENES FROM " POLITIAX ' 

Still will I uot descend. Baldazzar, make 
Apology unto tlio Duke for me ; 
I e:o uot down to-ni'^ht. 



BALDAZZAR. 

Your lordship's pleasure 
Shall be attended to. Good night, Politian. 



Good night, my friend, good night 



SOENES FKOM " POLITIAN." 161 



IV. 



The gaid&tis of a Palace — Moonlight. Lalage a/nd PouTLAif. 



And dost thou speak of love 

To me, Politian ? — dost thou speak of love 

To Lalage ? — ah, wo — ah, wo is me ! 

This mockery is most cruel — most cruel indeed 



Weep not ! oh, sob not thus ! — thy bitter tears 
Will madden me. Oh mourn not, Lalage — 
Be comforted ! I know — I know it all, 
And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest 
And beautiful Lalage ! — turn here thine eyes 1 
11 



162 SCENES FKOSI "■ POLITIAN." 

Thou askest me if I could spaak of love, 
Knowing what I know, and seeing wliat I Lave seen. 
Thou askest me that — and thus I answer thee — 
Thus on my bended knee 1 answer thee. 

(^Kneeling.) 

Sweet Lalage, I love thee — love thee — love thee ; 
Thro' good and ill — thro' weal and wo I love tliee. 
Not mother, with her first-born on her knee, 
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee. 
Not on God's altar, in any time or clime, 
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now 
Within my spirit for thee. And do I love ? 

{Arzstng.) 

Even for thy woes I love thee — even for thy woes — 
Thy beauty and thy woes. 



Alas, proud Earl, 
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me ! 
How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens. 



SCENES FBOM " POLITIAN." lOo 

Pure and reproachless of thy princely line, 

Could the dishonored Lalage abide ? 

Thy wife, and with a tainted memory — 

My seared and blighted name, how would it tally 

With the ancestral honors of thy house, 

And with thy glory ? 



Speak not to me of glory ! 
I hate — I loathe the name ; I do abhor 
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. 
Art thou not Lalage and I Politian ? 
Do I not love — art thou not beautiful — 
What need we more ? Ha ! glory ! — now speak not 

of it. 
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn — 
By all my wishes now — my fears hereafter — 
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven — 
There is no deed I would more glory in, 
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory 
And trample it under foot. What matters it — 
What matters it, my fair&st, and my best. 



164 SCENES FKOJI " POLITIAX." 

That we go down uiiliouored and forgotten 

Into the dust — so we descend together. 

Descend together — and then — and then, perchance 



Why dost thou pause, Politian ? 



And then, perchance. 
Arise together, Lalage, and roam 
The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, 
And still 



Why dost thou pause, Politian ? 



POLITIAN. 

And still together — tos:ethei: 



SCENES FROSr '' POLITIAN." 1G5 



NTow, Earl of Leicester ! 

Thou lovest me, and in my lieart of hearts 

I feel thou lovest me truly. 



Oil, Lalage ! 
( Throwing mmself upon his knee.] 
And lovest thou me 7 



Hist ! hush ! within the gloom 
Of yonder trees methought a figure passed — 
A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless — 
Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. 

{Walks across ami returns.) 



166 SCENES FItOM 1^0LITIAJS\" 

I was mistaken — 'twas but a giant bough 
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian ! 



My Lalage — my love ! why art thou moved ? 
Why dost thou turn so pale ? Not Conscience' self, 
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it, 
Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind 
Is chilly — and these melancholy boughs 
Throw over all things a s'loom. 



Politian ! 
Thou spcakest to me of love. Knowest thou the laud 
With which all tongues are busy — a land new found — 
Miraculously found by one of Genoa — 
A thousand leagues within the golden west ? 
A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine, 
And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests. 



SCENES FKOM " TOLITIAX." 107 

And mouiilaius, arouud wliose toweriug summits the 

winds 
Of Heaven untrammelled flow — which air to breathe 
Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter 
In days that are to come ? 



0, wilt thou — wilt thou 
Fly to that Paradise — my Lalage, wilt thou 
Fly thither with me ? There Care shall be forgotten, 
And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. 
And life shall then be mine, for I will live 
For thee, and in thine eyes — and thou shalt be 
No more a mourner — but the radiant Joys 
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope 
Attend thee ever ; and I will kneel to thee 
And worship thee, and call thee my beloved. 
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife. 
My all ; — oh, wilt thou — wilt thou, Lalage, 
Fly thither with me ? 



108 SCJiNJiS FJROM " POLITIAV." 

LAJ.AGE. 

A deed is to be done- 
Castiglione lives ! 



And he shall die I {Exit. 



LALAGE {after a pause). 

And — he — shall— die ! alas ! 

Castiglione die ? Who spoke the words ? 
Where am I ? — what was it he said ? — Politiuu ! 
Thou aii not g-oiie — thou art not gone, Politiau ! 
I feel thou art not gone — yet dare not look. 
Lest I behold thee not ; thou couldst not go 
With those words upon thy lips — 0, speak to me 1 
y^ And let me hear thy voice — one word — one word, 
To say thou art not gone, — one little sentence, 
To say how thou dost scorn — how thou dost hate 
My womanly weakness. Ha ! ha I thou art not gone — 



SCENES FKOM " POIJTIAN." 1 G9 

speak to me ! I knew thou wouldst not go ! 

1 knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go. 
Villain, thou art not gone — thou mockest me ! 

And thus I clutch thee — thus ! He is gone, he 

is gone — 
Gone — gone. Where am I? 'tis well — 'tis very 

well ! 
So that the blade be keen — the blow be sure, 
'Tis well, 'tis verii well — alas ! alas I 



170 SCENES FROM " I'OJ.iTlAX." 



The suhurbs. VoimAs alon«. 



riiis weakness grows upon me. 1 am faint, 

And much I fear me ill — it will not do 

To die ere I have lived ! — Stay — stay thy hand, 

Azrael, yet awhile I — Prince of the Powers 

Of Darkness and the Tomb, pity me ! 

pity me ! let me not perish now, 

In the budding of my Paradisal Hope ! 

Give me to live yet^ — yet a little while : 

'Tis I who pray for life — I who so late 

Demanded but to die I — what saveth the Count ? 



Enter Baldazzar. 



SCENES FROM " rOLlTlAN," 171 



BALDA2ZAB. 



That knowing no cause ol' quarrel or of feud 
Between the Earl Politian and himself, 
He doth decline your cartel. 



Wliat didst thou say ? 
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar ? 
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes 
Laden from yonder bowers ! — a fairer day. 
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks 
No mortal eyes have seen ! — wlmt said the Count ? 



BALDAZZAK. 

That he, Castiglione, not being aware 

Of any feud existing, or any cause 

Of quarrel between your lordship and himself 

Caunot accept tlie challenge. 



172 SCIINES FIIOM " P0LIXIA^\" 



It is most true — 
All this is very true. When saw you, sir, 
When saw you uow, Baklazzar, in ihe frigid, 
Uugeuial Britain which we left so lately, 
A heaven so calm as this — so utterly free 
From the evil taint of clouds ? — and ha did say ? 



BALD.VZZAR. 

No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir 
The Count Castiglione will not fight. 
Having no cause for quarrel. 



FOLITIAN. 

Now this is true — 
All very true. Thou art ray friend, Baldazzar, 
And 1 have not forgotten it — thoult do ino 
A piece of service ; wilt thou go back and say 



SCENES FKOM " POLITIAN." 173 

Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester, 
Hold him a villain ?— thus much, I prythee, say 
Unto the Count — it is exceeding just 
He should have cause for quarrel. 



BALDAZZAR. 



My lord ! — my friend 1 



POLITIAN (aside). 

'Tis he ! — he comes himself ! (aloud.) Thou reasonest 

well. 
I know what thou wouldst say — not send the message — 
Well ! — I will think of it — I will not send it. 
Now prythee, leave me — hither doth come a person 
With whom affairs of a most private nature 
I would adjust. 

BALDAZZAH. 

I go — to-morrow we meet 
Do !ve not?-— at the Vatican. 



17-1 SCENES FKOM " POLITIAN." 



At the Vatican. 

{Exit Baldazzar 



Miter Castiglione. 



CASTIGLIONE. 



The Earl of Leicester here ! 



I am the Earl of Leicester, aud thou seeet, 
Dost thou not ? that I am here. 



CASTIGLIONE. 



My lord, some strauge, 
Some siugular mistake — misunderstanding — 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 175 

Hath without doubt arisen : thou hast bceu urged 
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address 
Some words most unaccountable, in writing, 
To me^ Castiglione ; the bearer being 
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware 
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing, 
Having given thee no offence. Ha ! — am I right ? 
'Twas a mistake ? — undoubtedly — we all 
Do err at times. 



POLITIAN. 

Draw, villain, and prate no more 1 

CASTIGLIONE. 

Ha ! — draw ? — and villain ? have at thee then at once, 
Proud Earl ! [Draws 



POLITIAN [drawing) . 

Thus to the expiatory tomb, 
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thoe 
In the name of Lalajje ! 



176 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 



Castiglione [leUing.,fall his sword and recoiling to the 
extremity of the stage). 

Of Lalage ! 
Hold off — thy sacred band I — avauut, I say I 
Avaunt — I will not fight thee — indeed I dare not. 



Thou wilt not fight with me, didst say, Sir Count ? 
Shall I be bafiJod thus ? — now this is well ; 
Didst say thou darest not ? Ha ! 



CASTIGLIONE. 

I dare not — dare not — 
Hold oS" thy hand — with that beloved name 
So freah upon thy lips I will not fight thee — 
T cannot — daro not. 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." J 77 



Now by my halidoin 
I do believe thee ! — coward, 1 do believe thee — 



CASTIGLTONE. 

Ha I — coward ! — tliis may uot be ! 

[Clutches his sword and staggers towards 
PoLiTiAN, but his purpose is changed 
before reaching him, and he falls upon 
his knee at the feet of the Earl.) 

Alas ! my lord, 
It is — it is — most true. In such a cause 
I am the veriest coward. pity me! 



POLITIAN {greatly softened). 
Alas ! — I do — indeed I pity thee. 



178 SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 

CASTIGLIONE. 

And Lalage 

POLITIAN. 

Scoundrel .' — arise and die ! 

CASTIGLIONE. 

It needeth not be — thus — thus — let me die 

Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting 

That in this deep humiliation I perish. 

For in the fight I will not raise a hand 

Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home — 

{Baring his bosom.) 

Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon — 
Strike home. 1 will not fia:ht thee. 



Now s'Death and Hell ! 
Am I not — am I not sorely — grievously tempted 



SCENES FROM " POLITIAN." 179 

To take thee at thy word ? But mark me, sir, 

Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare 

For public iusult in the streets— before 

The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee — 

Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee — 

Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest — 

Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain, — I'll taunt thee, 

Dost hear ? with cowardice — thou wilt not fight me ? 

Thou liest 1 thou slinlt ! [Exit. 



CASTIGLIONE 

Now this indeed is just ! 
Most righteous and most just, avenging Heaven 1 



\ 



POEMS WRITTEN" IN YOUTH. 



Private reasons — some of which have reference to the sin of 
plagiarism, and others to the date of Tenuyson's first poems — have 
induced mo, after some hesitation, to re-publish tliese, the crude 
compcjsitions of ray earliest boyhood. They are printed verbaCim — 
without alteration from the original edition — the date of which is too 
remota to bo judiciously acknowledged. 

E. A. P. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN TOUTH. 



SONNET.— TO SCIENCE. 

Science ! true daughter of Old Time thou art ! 

Who alter est all things with thy peering eyes. 
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, 

Vulture, whose wings are dull realities ? 
How should he love thee ? or how deem thee wise, 

Who wonldst not leave him in his wandering 
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies. 

Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? 
Hast thou not dragged Diana from lier car ? 

And driven the Hamadryad from tlie wood 
'J'o seek a shelter in some happier star ? 

Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, 
The Elfin from the green grass, and fro'u me 
The Rummer dream beneath the tamarind tree? 



AT. A A R A A F . 



! NOTHING earthly save the ray 
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, 
As in those gardens where the day 
Springs from the gems of Circassy — 
! nothing earthly save the thrill 
Of melody iu woodland rill — 
Or (music of the passion-hearted) 
Joy's voice so peacefully departed 
That, like the murmur in the shell, 
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell — 
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours — 
Yet all the beauty — all the flowers 
That list our Love, and deck our bowers — 
' Adorn yon world afixr, afar — 
Tlic wander: uir star. 



AL AAKAAF, 185 

'Twas a sweet time for Nesace — for there 
Her world lay lolling ou the goldeu air, 
Near four bright suns — a temporary rest — 
An oasis in desert of the blest. 
Away— away — 'mid seas of rays that roll 
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul — 
Tiie soul that scarce (the billows are so dense) 
Can struggle to its destined eminence — 
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode 
And late to ours, the favored one of God — 
But, now, the ruler of an anchored realm. 
She throws aside the sceptre — leaves the heli> . 
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns, 
Laves in quadruple light lier angel limbs. 



Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, 
Whence sprang the " Idea of Beauty" into birth, 
(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star, 
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar. 
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt) 
She looked into Infinity — and knelt. 
Rich clouds, ior canopies, about her curled — 
Fit emblems of the model of her world— 



186 AL AARAAF. 

Seeu but in beauty — not impeding sight 
Of otlier beauty glittering through the light — ■ 
A wreath that twined each starry form around. 
And all the opal'd air in color bound. 



All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed 
Of flowers : of lilies such as reared the huad 
'' On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang 
So eagerly around about to hang 

Upon the flying footsteps of deep pride— 

' Of her who loved a mortal — and so died. 
The Sephalica, budding with young bees, 
Upreared its purple stem around her knees : 
'' And gemmy flower of Trebizoud misnamed — ■ 
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it shamed 
All other loveliness : its honied dew 
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) 
Deliriously sweet, was dropped from Heaven, 
And fell on gardens of the unforgiveo 
In Trebizond — and on a sunny flower 
So like its own above that, to this hour. 
It still remaineth, torturing the bee 
With madness, and unwonted reverie : 



AX AAKAAF. . 187 

In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf 

And blossom of the fairy plant, iu grief 

Disconsolate linger — grief that hangs her head, 

Repenting follies that full long have fled. 

Heaving her white breast to the balmv air. 

Like guilty beauty, chastened and more lair : 

Nyctauthes too, as sacred as the light 

She fears to perfume, perfuming the night : 

° And Clylia pondering between many a sun. 

While pettish tears adown her petals run : 

' And that aspiriug flower that sprang on Earth — 

Aud died, ere scarce exalted into birth, 

Burstiug its odorous heart in spirit to wing 

Its way to Heaven from garden of a king : 

^ And Valisuerian lotus thither flown 

From struggling with the waters of the Rhone : 

'■ And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante ! 

Isola d'oro ! — Fior di Levante ! 

And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever 

' With Indian Cupid down the holy river — 

Fair flowers, aud fairy ! to whose care is given 

' To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven : 



ISa AL AAEAAF. 

' Spirit ! that dwcllest where, 

In the deep sky, 
The terrible and fair, 

In beauty vie ! 
Beyond the line of blue — 

The boundary of the star 
Which turneth at the view 

Of thy barrier and thy bar — 
Of the barrier overgone 

By the comets who were cast 
From their pride and from their throne 

To be drudges till the last — 
To be carriers of fire 

(The red fire of their heart) 
With speed that may not tire 

And with pain that shall not part — 
Who livest — thut we know — 

In Eternity — we fee! — 
But the shadow of whose brow 

"What spirit shall reveal ? 
Though the beings whom thy Nesace, 

Thy messenger hath known 
Have dreamed for thy Infinity 

' A model of their own- ■ 
Thy will is done, God ! 



AL AAKAAF. ii39 

The star hath riddeo liigh 
Through many a tempest, but she rode 

Beneath thy burning eye ; 
And here, in thought, to thee — 

In thought that can alone 
Ascend thy empire, and so be 

A partner of thy throne — 
' By winged Fantasy, 

My embassy is given, 
Till secrecy shall knowledge be 

In the environs of Heaven." 

She ceased — and buried then her burning cheek 

Abashed, amid the lilies, there to seek 

A shelter from the fervor of His eye ; 

For the stars trembled at the Deity. 

She stirred not — breathed not — for a voice was there 

How solemnly pervading the calm air ! 

A sound of silence on the startled ear 

Which dreamy poets name " the music of the sphere." 

Ours is a world of words : Quiet we call 

'• Silence " — which is the merest word of all. 

All Nature speaks, and even ideal things 

Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings — 



190 AL AAKAAF. 

But ah ! not so when, thus, in realms on high 
The eternal voice of God is passing by, 
And the red winds are withering in the sky ! 



"■ " What though in worlds which sightless cycles 
run, 
Linked to a little system, and one sun — 
Where all my love is folly, and the crowd 
Still think my terrors but the thunder-cloud. 
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath — 
(Ah ! will they cross me in my angrier path ? ) 
What though in worlds which own a single sun 
The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run, 
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given 
To bear my secrets through the upper Heaven • 
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly, 
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky — 
° Apart — like fire-flies in Sicilian night. 
And wing to other worlds another light ! 
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy 
To the proud orbs that twinkle — and so be 
To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban 
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man ! " 



AL AAKAAF. 191 

Up rose the maiden in the yellow night, 
The single-mooned eve ! — on Earth we plight 
Oar faith to one love — and one moon adore — 
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more. 
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours 
Up rose the maiden from her shi-ine of flowers, 
And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain 
' Her way — but left not yet her Therasaeau reign. 



192 AL AAKAAF. 



P A E T II. 

High on a mountaiu of enamelled b(!ad— 

Such as the di'owsy shepherd on his bed 

Of giant pasturage lying at his ease, 

Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees 

With many a muttered " hope to be forgiven," 

VYhat time the moon is quadrated in Heaven- - 

Of rosy head, that towering far away 

Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray 

Of sunken suns at eve — at noon of night. 

While the moon danced with the fair stranger light — 

Upreared upon such height arose a pile 

Of gorgeous columns on th' uuburthened air. 

Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile 

Far down vpon the wave that sparkled there, 

And nursled the young mountain in its lair. 

° Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall 

Through the ebon air, besilvering the pall 

Of their own dissolution, while they die — 

Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. . 



AX AARAAT. 

A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, 
Sat gently on these columns as a crown — 
A window of one circular diamond, tliere, 
Looked out above into the purple air, 
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain 
And hallowed all the Ijeauty twice again. 
Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring, 
Some eager spirit flapped his dusky wing. 
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen 
The dimness of this world : that grayish gi-een 
That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave 
Lurked in each cornice, round each architrave — 
And every sculptured cherub thereabout 
That from his marble dwelling peered out. 
Seemed earthly in the shadow of his niche — 
Achaian statues in a world so rich ? 
" Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis — 
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss 
" Of beautiful Gomorrah ! 0, the wave 
Is now upon thoe — but too late to save ! 



Sound loves to revel in a summer night : 
Witness the murmur of the gray twilight 

ir, 



194 AL AARAAF. 

* That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco, 
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago — 
That stealcth ever on the ear of him 
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim. 
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud — 

* Is not its ibrm — its voice — most palpable and loud ? 



But what is this ? — it cometh — and it brings 
A music with it — 'tis the rush of wings — 
A pause — and then a sweeping, falling strain 
And Nesace is in her halls again. 
From the wild energy of wanton haste 

Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart ; 
And zone that clung around her gentle waist 

Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart. 
Within the centre of that hall to breathe 
She paused and panted, Zanthe ! all beneath. 
The fairy light that kissed her golden hair 
And longed to rest, yet could but sparkle there I 



'Young flowers were whispering in melody 
To happy flowers that ni!j:ht — and tree to tree ; 



AX AARAAF. 195 

J^'ouutaius were gushing music as they fell 
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell ; 
Yet silence came upon material things — 
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings — 
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang 
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang : 



" 'Neath the blue bell or streamer — 

Or tufted wild spray 
That keeps, from the dreamer, 
" The moonbeam away — 
Briglit beings I that ponder, 

With half-closing eyes. 
On the stars which your wonder 

Hath drawn from the skies, 
Till they glance through the shade, and 

Come down to your brow 
Like eyes of the maiden 

Who calls on you now — 
Arise ! from your dreaming 

In violet bowers, 
To duty beseeming 

These star-litten hours — 



196 AL AAKAAF. 

And shake from your tresses 

Encumbered with dew 
The breath of those kisses 

That cumber them too — 
(0 ! how, without you, Love ! 

Could angels be blest ? ) 
Those kisses of true Love 

That lulled ye to rest ! 
Up ! — shake from your wing 
Each hindering thing : 
The dew of the night — 
It would weigh down your flight 
And true love caresses — 

! leave them apart I 
They are light on the tresses, 

But lead on the heart. 

Ligeia ! Ligeia ! 

My beautiful one ! 
Whose harshest idea 

Will to melody ruo, 
I is it thy will 

On the breezes to toss ? 
Or, capriciously still, 



AI. AAKAAK. 197 

" Like the lone Albatross, 
Incumbent on night 

(As she on the air) 
To keep watch with delight 
On the harmony there ? 

Ligeia ! wherever 

Thy image may be, 
No magic shall sever 

Thy music from thee. 
Thou hast bound many eyes 

In a dreamy sleep- 
But the strains still arise 

Which thy vigilance keep — 
The sound of the rain 

Which leaps down to the flower. 
And dances again 

In the rhythm of the showei'— 
' The murmur that springs 

From the growing of grass 
Are the music of things — 

But are modelled, alaa !- - 
Away, then, my dearest, 

Oh ! hie thee away 



198 AL AABAAF. 

To springs that lie clearest 

Beneath the moon-ray — 
To lone lake that smiles. 

In its dream of deep rest. 
At the many star-isles 

That enjewel its breast — 
Where wild flowers, creeping, 

Have mingled their shade, 
On its margin is sleeping 

Full many a maid — 
Some have left the cool glade, and 
' Have slept with the bee — 
Arouse them my maiden. 

On moorland and lea — 
Go ! breathe on their slumber. 

All softly in ear, 
The musical number 

They slumbered to hear — 
For what can awaken 

An angel so soon 
AVhose sleep hath been taken 

Beneath the cold moon, 
As the spell which no slumber 

Of witchery may test. 



EL AARAAF. 199 

The rhythmical uuraber 
Which hilled him to rest ? " 

Spirits in wiug, and angels to the view, 

A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean through, 

Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy fliglit — 

Seraphs in all but " Knowledge,'' the keen liglit 

That fell, refracted, through thy bounds, afar 

Death ! from eye of God upon that star : 

Sweet was that error — sweeter still that death — 

Sweet was that error — e'en with us the breath 

Of Science dims the mirror of our joy — 

To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy — 

For what (to them) availeth it to know 

That Truth is Falsehood— or that Bliss is Wo ? 

Sweet was their death — with them to die was rife 

With the last ecstasy of satiate life — 

Beyond that death no immortality — 

But sleep that pondereth and is not " to be " — 

And there — oh ! may my weary spirit dwell — 

'' Apart fi'om Heaven's Eternity — and yet how far 

from Hell ! 
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbei-y dim. 
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn ? 



200 AL AAllAAF. 

But two : they fell : for Heaven no grace imparts 
To those who hear not for their beating hearts. 
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover — 
! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over) . 
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known ? 
Unguided Love hath fallen — 'mid " tears of perfect 
moan." 

He was a goodly spirit — he who fell : 

A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well — 

A gazer on the lights that shine above — 

A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love : 

What wonder ? for each star is eye-like there. 

And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair — 

And they, and every mossy spring were holy 

To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. 

The night had found (to him a night of wo) 

Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo — 

Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky, 

And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie. 

Here sat he with his love — his dark eye bent 

With eagle gaze along the firmament : 

Now turned it. upon her — but ever then 

It trembled to the orb of Earth aocain. 



AL AARAAF. 201 

" lauthe, dearest, see I uow aim thai ray ! 

How lovely 'tis to look so lar away ! 

She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve 

I left her gorgeous halls— nor mourned to leave. 

That eve — that eve — I should remember well — 

The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos, with a spell 

On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall 

Wherein I sat, and on the draperied wall — 

And on my eyelids — the heavy light I 

How drowsily it weighed them into night ! 

On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran 

With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan : 

But that light ! — I slumbered — Death, the while, 

Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle 

So softly that no single silken hair 

Awoke that slept — or knew that he was thei-e. 

The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon 
^ Was a proud temple called the Parthenon — 
More beauty clung around her column 'd wall 
" Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal, 
And when old Time my wing did disenthral 
Thence sprang I — as the eagle from his tower, 



202 AL AAUAAF. 

And years I left behind nie iu an hour. 
What time upon her airy bounds 1 hung 
One half the garden of her globe was tlung 
Unrolling as a chart unto my view — 
Tenantless cities of the desert too ! 
lanthe, beauty crowded on me then, 
And half I wished to be again of men." 



'* My Angelo ! and why of thom to be ? 
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee — 
And greener fields than in yon world above, 
And woman's loveliness — and passionate love." 



" But, list, lanthe ! when the air so soft 
° Failed, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft. 
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy — but the world 
I left so late was into chaos hurled — 
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart, 
And rolled, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart. 
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar 
And fell — not swiftly as I rose before, 



AL AAKAAF, 203 

But with a downward, tremulous motion through 
Light, brazeu rays, this golduu star unto ! 
Nor long the measure of ray falling hours, 
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours — 
Dread star ! that came, amid a night of mirth, 
A red Djjedalion on the timid Earth." 

" We came — and to thy Earth — but not to us 

Be given our lady's bidding to discuss : 

We came, my love ; around, above, below. 

Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go. 

Nor ask a reason, save the angel-nod 

She grants to us, as granted by her God — 

But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled 

Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world ! 

Dim was its little disk, and augel eyes 

Aloue could see the phantom in the skies, 

When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be 

Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea — 

But when its glory swelled upon the sky, 

As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye, 

We paused before the heritage of men, 

And thy star trembled — as doth Beauty's then !" 



204 AL AARAAF. 

Thus, in discouise, the lovers whiled away 
The night that waned and waned and brought no day. 
They fell : for Heaven to them no hope imparts 
"Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. 



TO 1 U 1'^ RIVER 



Fair river ! in thy bright, clear flow 

Of crystal, wanderiug water, 
Thou art an emblem of the glow 

Of beauty — the unhidden heart- 
The playful magazines of art 
In old Alberto's daughter ; 



But when within thy wave she looks — 

Which glistens then, and trembles — 
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks 

Her worshipper resembles ; 
For in his heart, as in thy stream, 

Her image deeply lies — 
His heart which trembles at the beam 

Of her sonl-searching eyes. 



T A M E R L A. Js^ E . 



Kind solace in a dying hour ! 

Such, father, is not (now) my theme — 
I will not madly deem that power 

Of Earth may shrive me of the sin 
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in — 

I have no time to dote or dream : 
You call it hope — that fire of fire ! 
It is but agony of desire : 
If I can hope — Oh God ! I can — 

Its fount is holier — more divine — 
I would not call thee fool, old man, 

But such is not a gift of thine. 



Know thou the secret of a spirit 

Bow'd from its wild pride into shame, 

yearning heart ! I did inherit 

Thy withering portion with the fame, 



TAMERLANE. 207 



The searing glory which hath shone 
Amid the Jewels of my throne, 
Halo of Hell ! and with a pain 
Not Hell shall make me fear again — ■ 
craving heart, for the lost flowers 
And sunshine of my summer hours ! 
The undying voice of that dead time, 
With its interminable chime, 
Rings, in the spirit of a spell, 
Upon thy emptiness— a knell. 



I have not always been as now : 
The fever'd diadem on my brow 

I claim'd and won usurpingly 

Hath not the same fierce heirdom given 
Rome to the Caesar — this to me ? 
The heritage of a kingly mind. 
And a proud spirit which hath striven 
Triumphantly with human kind. 



On mountain soil I first drew life : 
The mists of the Taglay have shed 



208 TAMERLANE. 

Nightly their dews upon my head, 
And I believe the winged strife 
And tumult of the headlong air 
Have nestled in my very hair. 



So late from Heaven — that dew — it fell 

('Mid dreams of an unholy night) 
Upon me with the touch of Hell, 

While the red flashing of the light 
From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er, 

Appeared to my half-closing eye 

The pageantry of monarchy, 
And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar 

Came hurriedly upon me, telling 
Of human battle, where my voice, 
My own voice, silly child ! — was swelling 

(0 ! how my spirit would rejoice, 
And leap within me at the cry) 
The battle-cry of Victory ! 



The rain came down upon my head 
Unshelter'd — and the heavy wind 



TAaiERLANE. 209 

Rendered me mad, and deaf, and blind. 
It was but man, I thought, who shed 

Laurels upon me : and the rush — 
The torrent of the chilly air 

Gurgled within my ear the crush 
Of empires — with the captive's prayer — 
The hum of suitors — and the tone 
Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. 



My passions, from that hapless hour, 

TJsurp'd a tyranny which men 
Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power, 
My innate nature — be it so : 

But, father, there liv'd one who, then, 
Then — in my boyhood — when their fire 

Burn'd with a still intenser glow, 
(For passion must, with youth, expire) 

E'en then who knew this iron heart 

In woman's weakness had a part. 



I have no words — alas ! — to tell 

The lovelinesa of loving well I 
14 



210 TAMERLANE. 

Nor would I now attempt to trace 
The more than beauty of a face 
Whose lineaments, upon my mind, 

Are shadows on th' unstable wind : 

Thus I remember having dwelt 

Some page of early lore upon. 
With loitering eye, till I have felt 
The letters — with their meaning — melt 

To fantasies — with none. 



0, she was worthy of all love ! 

Love — as in infancy, was mine — 
'Twas such as angel minds above 

Might envy ; her young heart the shrine 
On which my every hope and thought 

Were incense — then a goodly gift. 
For they were childish and upright — 
Pure as her young example tan^-;ht : 

Why did I leave it, and, adrift. 
Trust to the fire within for liffht? 



TAMERLANE. 211 

We grew in age — and love — together — 

Roaming the forest, and the wild ; 
My breast her shield in wintry weather — 

And when the friendly sunshine smiled, 
And she would mark the opening skies, 
I saw no Heaven — but in her eyes. 



Young Love's first lesson is the heart : 

For 'mid that sunshine and those smiles, 
When, from our little cares apart, 

And laughing at her girlish wiles, 
I'd throw me on her throbbing breast, 

And pour my spirit out in tears — 
There was no need to speak the rest — 

No need to quiet any fears 
Of her — who ask'd no reason why. 
But turned on me her quiet eye ! 



Yet more than worthy of the love 
My spirit struggled with, and strove, 
When, on the mountain peak, alone, 
A.mbition lent it a new tone — 



212 TAMEELANE. 

i had no being — but in thee : 
The world, and all it did contain 

In the earth — the air — the sea — 
Its joy — its little lot of pain 

That was new pleasure ^the ideal, 

Dim, vanities of dreams by night — 

And dimmer nothings which were real — 
(Shadows — and a more shadowy light !) 

Parted upon their misty wings, 
And, so, confusedly, became 
Thine image and — a name — a name ! 

Two separate — ^yet most intimate things. 



I was ambitious — have you known 

The passion, father ? You have not 
A cottager, I mark'd a throne 
Of half the world as all my own. 

And murmured at such lowly lot — 
But, just like any other dream, 

Upon the vapor of the dew 
My own had past, did not the beam 

Of beauty which did while it thro' 



TAMEKLAXE. 211 

The minute — tiie hour — the day — oppress 
My mind with double loveliness. 



We walk'd togethei' on the crown 

Of a high mountain which look'd down 

Afar from its proud natural towers 

Of rock and forest, on the hills— 
The dwindled hills ! begirt with bowers, 

And shouting with a thousand rills. 



I spoke to her of power and pride, 

But mystically — in such guise 
That she might deem it nought beside 

The moment's converse ; in her eyes 
I read, perhaps too carelessly — 

A mingled fooling with my own — 
The flush on her bright cheek, to me 

Seem'd to become a queenly throne 
Too well that I should let it be 

Light in the wilderness alone. 



21 4 ta:meki.axe. 

I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then, 

And donn'd a vasionary crown 

Yet it was not that Fantasy 
Had thrown her mantle over me— 
But that, among the rabble — men. 

Lion ambition is chained down — 
And crouches to a keeper's hand — 
Not so in deserts where the grand — 
The wild — the terrible conspire 
With their own breath to fan his fire. 



Look 'round thee now on Samarcand '. — 

Is not she queen of Earth ? her pride 
Above all cities ? in her hand 

Their destinies? in all beside 
Of glory which the world hath known 
Stands she not nobly and alone ? 
Falling — her veriest stepping-stone 
Shall form the pedestal of a throne — 
And who her sovereign ? Timour — he 

Whom the astonished people saw 
Striding o'er empires haughtily — 

A diadem 'd outlaw ! 



TAMEELANB. 215 



0, human love ! thou spirit given 
On Earth of all we hope in Heaven ! 
Which fall'st into the soul like rain 
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain, 
And failing in thy power to bless, 
But leav'st the heart a wilderness . 
Idea ! which bindest life around 
With music of so strange a sound, 
And beauty of so wild a birth — 
Farewell ! for I have won the Earth. 



When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see 

No cliff beyond him in the sky, 
His pinions were bent droopingly — 

And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye. 
'Twas sunset : when the sun will part 
There comes a sullenness of heart 
To him who still would look upon 
The glory of the summer sun. 
That soul will hate the ev'ning mist, 
So often lovely, and will list 
To the sound of the coming darkness (known 
To those whose spirits hearken) as one 



216 TAMEULAJS^E. 

Who, ill a dream of night, would fly 
But cannot from a danuer nigh. 



What though the moon — the white moon 
Shed all the splendor of her noon, 
Her smile is chilly — and her beam, 
In that time of dreariness, will seem 
(So like you gather in your breath) 
A portrait taken after death. 
And boyhood is a summer sun 
Whose waning is the dreariest one — 
For all we live to know is known, 
And all we seek to keep hath flown — 
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall 
With the noon-day beauty — which is all. 



I reach'd my home — my home no more — 
For all had flown who made it so. 

I pass'd from out its mossy door, 
And. tho' my tread was soft and low. 



TAMERLANE. 217 

A voice came from the threshold stone 
Of one whom I had earlier known — 

O, I defy thee, Hell, to show 

On beds of fire that burn belov/ 

A humbler heart — a deeper wo. 



Father, I firmly do believe — 
I know — for Death who comes for me 
From regions of the blest afar, 
Where there is nothing to deceive, 
Hath left his iron gate ajar, 
And rays of truth you cannot see 

Are flashing thro' Eternity 

I do believe that Bblis hath 
A snare in every human path — 
Else how, when in the holy grove 
I wandered of the idol, Love, 
Who daily scents his snowy wings 
With incense of burnt offerings 
From the most unpolluted things, 
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven 
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven 



218 TAMETLANE. 

ITo mote may shun — no tiniest fly — 
The light'ning of his eagle eye — 
How "was it that Ambition crept, 

Unseen, amid the revels there. 
Till, growing bold, he laughed and leapt 

In the tangles of Love's very hair ? 



TO 



The bowers whereat, in dreams, 1 see 
The wantonest singing birds, 

Are lips — and all thy melody 
Of lip-begotten words — 



Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined, 

Then desolately fall, 
Grod ! on my funereal mind 

Like starlight on a pall — 



Thy heart — thy heart ! — I wake and sigh, 

And sleep to dream till day 
Of the truth that gold can never buy — 

Of the baubles that it may. 



A DREAM 



In visioiifi of the dark night 

I have dreamed of joy departea — 

But a waking dream of life and light 
Hatli left me broken-hearted. 



Ah I what is not a dream by day 
To him whose eyes are cast 

On things around him with a ray 
Turned back upon the past ? 



That holy dream — that holy dream, 
While all the world were chiding, 

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam 
A lonely spirit guiding. 



A DREAM. 221 

What though that light, thro' storm and night, 

So trembled from afar — 
What could there be more purely bright 

In Truth's day-star ? 



ROMANCE. 



Romance, who loves to nod and sing, 
With drowsy head and folded wing, 
Among the green leaves as they shake 
Far down within some shadowy lake, 
To me a painted paroquet 
Hath heen — a most familiar bird — 
Taught me my alphabet to say — 
To lisp my very earliest word 
"While in the wild wood I did lie, 
A child — with a most knowing eye. 



Of late, eternal Condor years 
So shake the very Heaven on high 
With tumult as they thunder by, 
I have no time for idle cares 
Through gazing on the unquiet sky. 



ROMANCE. 223 



And when an hour with calmer wings 
Its down upon my spirit flin i;s — 
That little time with lyre and rhyme 
To while away— forbidden things ! 
My heart would feel to be a crime 
Unless it trembled with the strings. 



FAIRY -LAND. 



Dim vales — and shadowy floods — 
And cloudy-looking woods, 
Whose forms we can't discover 
For the tears that drip all over 
Huge moons there wax and wane — 
Again — again — again — 
Every moment of the night — 
Forever changing places — 
And they put out the star-light 
With the breath from their pale facea. 
About twelve by the moon-dial, 
One more filmy than the rest 
(A kind which, upon trial. 
They have found to be the best) 
Comes down — still down — and down, 
With its centre on the crown 



FAIRY-LAND. 225 

Of a mountain's eminence, 

While its wide circumference 

In easy drapery falls 

Over hamlets, over halls, 

Wherever they may be — 

O'er the strange \vot>ds — o'er the sea — 

Over spirits on the wing — 

Over every drowsy thing — 

And buries them up quite 

In a labyrinth of light — 

And then, how deep ! — 0, deep ! 

Is the passion of their sleep. 

In the morning they arise, 

And their moony covering 

Is soaring in the skies, 

With the tempests as they toss, 

Like almost anything — 

Or a yellow Albatross. 
They use that moon no more 
For the same end as before — 
Videlicet a tent — 
Which I think extravagant; 
Its atomies, however. 
Into a shower dissever, 

K> 



226 FAIRY-LAND. 

Of which those butterflies 
Of Earth, who seek the skies, 
And so come down again, 
(Never contented things !) 
Have brought a specimen 
UpoD their quivering wings. 



THE LAKE— TO 



In spring of youth it was my lot 
To haunt of the wide world a spot 
The which I could not love the less — 
So lovely was the loneliness 
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, 
And the tall pines that towered around. 



But when the Night had thrown her pall 
Upon that spot, as upon all, 
And the mystic wind went by 
Murmuring in melody — 
Then — ah then I would awake 
To the terror of the lone lake. 



Yet that terror was not fright, 
But a tremulous delight — 

(227) 



228 THE LAKE TO . 

A feeling not the jewelled mine 
Could teach or bribe me to define — 
Nor Love — althous^h the Love were thine 



Death was in that poisonous wave. 

And in its gulf a fitting grave 

For him who thence could solace bring 

To his lone imagining — 

Whose solitary soul could make 

A.n Eden of that dim lake. 



SONG, 



I SAW thee on thy bridal day — 

When a burning bhish came o'er thee. 

Though happiness around thee lay, 
The world all love before thee : 



And in tliine eye a kindling light 
(Wliatever it might be) 

Was all on Earth my aching sight 
Of Loveliness could see. 



That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame — 

As such it well may pass — 
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame 

In the breast of him, alas ! 



230 



Who saw thee on that bridal day, 

When that deep blush would come o'er thee, 
Though happiness around thee lay; 

The world all love before thee. 



TO M. L. S- 



Oy ill w ') hail thy presence as the morning — 

Of all to whom thine absence is the night — 

The blotting utterly from out high heaven 

The sacred sun — of all who, weeping, bless thee 

Hourly for hope — for life — ah ! above all, 

For the resurrection of deep-buried faith 

In Truth — in Virtue — in Humanity — 

Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed 

Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen 

At thy soft-murmured words, " Let there be light I" 

At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled 

In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes — 

Of all who owe thee most — whose gratitude 

Nearest resembles worship — oh, remember 



232 TO M. L. g . 

The truest — the most I'erveutly devoted, 
And think that these weak lines are written hy him- 
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think 
His spirit is communing with an angel's. 



NOTES TO AL AARAAF. 



PART I 



Note " page 184. Al Aaraaf. 

A star was discovered by Tycho Braho which appeared suddenly 
in the heavens — attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing 
that of Jupiter — then as suddenly disappeared, and has never been 
soon since. 



" P. 186. On the fair Capo Deucato. 
On Santa Maura — olim Deucadia. 

° P. 186. Of her who loved a mortal — aiid so died. 

Kcvppho. 



234 NOTES TO AL AAJIAAF. 

'' P. 186. And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnamed 

This flower is much noticed by Leweuhoeck and Tournefort. Tho 
bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated. 

° P. 187. And Clytia pondering between many a sun. 

Clylia — the Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a better 
known term, the turnsol — which turns continually towards the sun, 
covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy 
clouds, which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent 
heat of the day. — B. de St. Pieeeb. 

P. 187. And tlmt aspiring flower that sprang on Earth. 

There is cultivated in the king's garden, at Paris, a species of 
serpentine aloes without prickles, whose large and beautiful flower 
exhales a strong odor of the vanilla, during the time of its expan- 
sion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month 
of July — you then perceive it gradually open its petals — expand 
them — fade and die. — St. Pierre. 

' P. 187. And Valisnerian lotus thither flown. 

There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the Valisnerian 
kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four feet — thus 
prcsorvinn; its head above water in the swellings of the river. 



NOTES TO AL AARAAF. 235 

T. 187. And t/ty most lovely' purple perfume, Zante. 
The Hyacinth. 



' P. 187. And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever; 
With Indian Cupid down the holy river. 

It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen floating in 
one of these down the river Ganges — and that he still loves the 
cradle of his childhood. 



' P. 187. To bear (he Goddess' song in odors up to Heaven. 

And golden vials full of odors, which are the prayers of the 
saints. — Rev. St. John. 



* P. 188. A model of their own. 

The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having 
really a human form. — Vide Clakke's Sermons, vol. 1, page 26, fol. 
edit. 

The drift of Milton's argument leads him to employ language which 
would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine ; but it 
will be seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge 
of having adopted one of the most Ignorant errors of the dark ages 
of the church. — Dr. Sumwbsr's Notes on Miiton's CmusrtAN Doctkke 

14 



236 NOTES TO AL AAKAAF. 

This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to tlie contrary, could 
never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, 
was condemned for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the begin- 
uing of the fourth century. His disciples were called Anth'ropmor- 
phitcs. — Vide Du Pin. 

Among Milton's minor poems are these lines : 

" Dicite sacrorum presides naemorum Deae, &c. 
Quis illo primus cujus ex imagine 
Natura solers finxit humanum genus ? 
Eternus, iucorruptus, aquKvus polo, 
Uuusque et universus exemplar Dei." 

And afterwards — 

" Kon cui profundum Csecitas lumen dedit 
Dircasus augur vidit hunc alto siuu," &c. 



P. 189. By winged Fantasy. 

Seltsamen Tochter Jovis 
Seinem Schosskiude 
Der Phantasie. — Goetle. 



-"P. 190. 
What though in worlds which sightless cycles run- 
Sightless — too small to be seen. — LBOca?. 



NOTES TO AL AAEAAF. 237 

' P. 190. Apart — like fire-jiies in Sicilian night. 

I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-flies ; — they 
will collect in a body and fly off, from a common centre, into innu- 
merable radii. 

° P. 191. Her way — biU left not yet her Thcrascean reign. 

Therassea, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca, which, in 
a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners. 



238 NOTES TO AL AABAAF. 



PART II. 

P. 192. Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall 
Tlirough the ebon air. 

Some star which from the ruined roof 

Of shaked Olympus, by mischauce, did fall. — Mn,TON. 



'■ P. 193. Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis. 

Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, " Je connois bien I'admi- 
ralion qu'inspirent ces ruincs — mais un palais erig6 au pied d'une 
chaiuo des rochers sterils — pent il 6ire un chef d'oeuvre des arts 1 " 



° P. 193. Of beautiful Gomorrah ! O, the wave. 

Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation ; but, on its own shores, it 
is called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. There were undoubtedly more 
than two cities ingulfed in the " Dead Sea." In the Valley of Siddim 
were five — Adrah, Zehoin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah. Stephen of 
Byzantium mentions eight, anj Strabo thirteen (ingulfed) — but the 
last is out of all reason. 

It is said [Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maun 



NOTES TO AL AAEAAF. 239 

drell, Troilo, D'Arvitnix] that after an excessive drought, the ves- 
tiges of columns, walls, &c.,are seen above the surface. At any 
season, such remains may be discovered by looking down Into the 
transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the existence 
of many settlements in the space now usurped by the "Asphaltites." 



"* F 194. Tliat stole upon the ear, in Eyraco. 

Eyraco — Chaklea. 



° P. 194. Is not its form — its voice, most palpable 
and loud? 

I have often thought I could distinctly hoar the sound of the dark 
ness as it stole over the horizon. 



'P. 194. Young flowers were whispering in melody. 
Fairies use flowers for their charactery. — Merry Wn'ES of Windsor 

* P. 195. The moonbeam away. 

m Scripture is this passage — " The sun shall not harm thee by 
day, nor the moon by uight." It is perhaps not generally known 
that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to 
those who sleep with the face exposed to its rays, to which circum- 
etance the passage evidently alludes. 



2'10 NOTES TO AL AARAAF. 

■^ P. 197. Like the lone Albatross. 
The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing. 

' P. 197. Tlie murmur that springs. 

I mot with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unaole 
to obtain, and quote from memory : — " The verie essence and, as it 
were, spriuge-heade and origine of aU musiohe is the verie pleasaunte 
sounde whigh the trees of the forest do make when they growe." 

' P. 198. Have slept with the bee. 

The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight. 
The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an 
appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. 
Scott, or rather from Claude Halcro — in whose mouth I admired its 
effect: 

" Oh 1 were there an island 
Though ever so wild, 
Where woman might smile, atd 
No man be beguiled," &c. 

^P. 199. Apart from Heaven's Eternity — and yet how 
far from Hell. 

With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, 



NOTES TO AL AARAAF. 241 

where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil 
and even happiness which they suppose to he characteristic of 
heavenly eujnymeut. 

Un no rompido sucuo — 

Ue dia puro — allegre — libre 

Quiera — 

Libre do amor — de zelo — 

De odio — de esperanza — de rezelo. — Luis Ponce de Leon. 

Sorrow is not excluded from " Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow 
which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some 
minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The passionate excitement 
of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication ar« 
its less holy pleasures — the price of which, to those souls who «nak* 
choice of " Al Aaraaf" as their residence after life, i» final d«ath 
and annihilation. 



' P. 200. Unguided love hath fallen — 'mid " tears of 
perfect moan." 



There be tears of perfect moan 
Wept for thee in Helicon. — Milton. 



" P. 201. Was a proud temple, called the Parthenon. 

It was entire in 1687 — ^the most elevated spot in Athena. 

16 



242 NOTES TO AL AARAAF, 

" P. 201. Than e'en thy glowing bosom beats withal. 

Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows 

Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love. — Mahlowe. 



* P. 202. Failed as my pemion'd spirit leaped aloft. 
Fennou — for pinion. — Milton. 



THE POETIC PRINOIPLE. 



THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 



In speakiug of the Poetic Princijile, I Lave no design 
to be either thorough or profound. While discussing, 
very much at random, the essentiality of what we call 
Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for con- 
sideration, some few of those minor English or Ameri- 
can poems which best suit my own taste, or which, 
upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impres- 
sion. By " minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of 
little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me 
to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar 
principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has 
always had its influence in my own critical estimate of 
the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I 
maintain that the phrase, " a long poem," is simply a 
flat contradiction in terms. 

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title 
only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The 
value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating ex- 



246 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 

citement. But all excitements are, through a psychal 
necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which 
would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be 
sustained throughout a composition of any great length. 
After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it 
flags — fails — a revulsion ensues — and then the poem is, 
in effect, and in fact, no longer such. 

There are, no doubt, many who have found diGBculty 
in reconciling the critical dictum that the " Paradise 
Lost" is to be devoutly admired throughout, with the 
absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during 
perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical 
dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to 
be regarded as poetical, only when, losing sight of tliat 
vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it 
merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its 
Unity — its totality of effect or impression — we read it 
(as would be necessary) at a single sitting, the result is 
but a constant alternation of excitement and depression. 
After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry, 
there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which 
no critical pre-judgment can force us to admire ; but 
if, upon completing the work, we read it again ; omit- 
ting the first book — that is to say, commencing with 



THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 24'? 

the second — we shall be surprised at now finding thai 
admirable which we before condemned — that damnable 
which we had previously so much admired. It follows 
from all this that the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute 
effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a nullity : 
and this is precisely the fact. 

In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, 
at least very good reason, for believing it intended as a 
series of lyrics ; but, granting the epic intention, I can 
say only that the work is based in an imperfect sense 
of Art. The modern epic is, of the suppositious an- 
cient model, but an inconsiderate and blindfold imita- 
tion. But the day of these artistic anomalies is over. 
If, at any time, any very long poem were popular in 
reality — which I doubt — it is at least clear that no very 
long poem will ever be popular again. 

That the extent of a poetical work is, ceteris paribus, 
the measure of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we 
thus state it, a proposition sufficiently absurd — yet we 
are indebted for it to the quarterly Reviews. Surely 
there can be nothing in mere size, abstractly considered 
— there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a volume 
is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admira- 
tion from these saturnine pamphlets ! A mountain, to 



248 • THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 

be sure, by the mere sentiment of physical magnitude 
which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of the 
sublime — but no man is impressed after this fashion by 
the material grandeur of even " The Columbiad." 
Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to be so 
impressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our 
estimating Lamartine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by 
the pound — but what else are we to infer from their 
continual prating about "sustained effort?" If, by 
" sustained effort," any little gentleman has accomplish- 
ed an epic, let us frankly commend him for the effort — 
if this indeed be a thing commendable — but let us for- 
bear praising the epic on the effort's account. It is to 
be hoped that common sense, in the time to come, will 
prffer deciding upon a work of Art, rather by the im- 
pression it makes— by the effect it produces — than by 
the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount 
of " sustained effort" which had been found necessary 
in effecting the impression. The fact is, that persever 
ance is one thing and genius quite another — nor can all 
the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By- 
and-by, this proposition, with many wliich I have been 
just urging, will be received as self-evident. In the 



THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 249 

meantime, by being geiierally condemned as falsities, 
they will not be essentially damaged as truths. 

On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be 
improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere 
epigrammatisra. A very short poem, while now and 
then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a 
profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady 
pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. De Be ran- 
ger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit- 
stirring ; but, in general, they have been too imponder- 
ous to stamp themselves deeply into the public atten- 
tion ; and thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been 
blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind. 

A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity 
in depressing a poem — in keeping it out of the popular 
view — is afforded by the following exquisite little Sere- 
nade : 



I arise from dreams of thee 

In tile first sweet sleep of night 
When the winds are breathing low, 

And the stars are shining bright. 
I arise from dreams of thee. 

And a spirit in my feet 
Has led me — who knows how ? — 

To thy chamber-window, sweet I 



250 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE, 

Tho wandering airs they faint 

On the darlv, the silent stream— 
The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
The nightingale's complaint, 

It dies upon her heart, 
As I must die on thine, 

0, beloved as thou art I 



0, hft me from the grass I 

I die, I faint, I fail I 
Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 

My heart beats loud and fast : 
Oh 1 press it close to thine again, 

Wliere it will break at last 1 



Very few, perhaps, are familiar with these lines — yet 
no less a poet than Shelley is their author. Their 
warm, yet delicate and ethereal imagination will be ap- 
preciated by all — but by none so thoroughly as by him 
who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one 
beloved, to bathe in the aromatic air of a southern 
midsummer night. 

One of the finest poems by Willis — the very best, in 
my opinion, which he has ever written — ^has, no doubt, 
through this same defect of undue brevity, been kept 



THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 251 

back from its proper position, not less in the critical 
than in the popular view. 



The shadows lay along Broadway, 
'Twas near the twilight-tide — 

And slowly there a lady fair 
Was walking in her pride. 

Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly, 
Walked spirits at hor side. 



Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 

And Honor charmed the air ; 
And all astir looked kind on her. 

And called her good as fair — 
For all God ever gave to her 

She kept with chary care. 



She kept with care her beauties rare 
From lovers warm and true — 

For her heart was cold to all but gold. 
And the rich came not to woo — 

But honored well are charms to sell 
If priests the seUing do. 



Now walking there was one more fair — 

A slight girl, lily-pale ; 
And she had unseen company 

To make the spirit quail — 
>Twixt Waut and Scorn she walked forlorn, 

And nnlliing could avail. 



252 THE POETIC PEINCIPLli:. 

No mercy now can cl'ar her brow 
For this world's peace to pray ; 

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
Tier woman's heart gave way I — 

But the sin forgiven by Christ hi Heaven 
By man is cursed alway 1 



In this composition we find it difiQcult to recognise 
the Willis ■who has written so many mere *' verses of 
society." The lines are not only richly ideal, but full 
of energy ; while they breathe an earnestness — an evi- 
dent sincerity of sentiment — for which we look in vain 
throughout all the other works of this author. 

While the epic mania — while the idea that, to merit 
in poetry, prolixity is indispensable — ^has, for some years 
past, been gradually dying out of the public mind, by 
mere dint of its own absurdity — we find it succeeded 
by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but 
one which, in the brief period it has already endured, 
may be said to have accomplished more in the corrup- 
tion of our Poetical Literature than all its other ene- 
mies combined. I allude to the heresy of The Didactic. 
It has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and 
indirectly, that the ultimate object of all Poetry is 
Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a 
moral ; and by tliis moral is the poetical merit of the 



THE POETIC PPaNCIPLE. 253 

work to be adjudged. We Americans especially Lave 
patronized this liappy idea ; and we Bostonians, very 
especially, have developed it in fall. We have taken it 
into our heads that to write a poem simply for the 
poem's sake, and to acknowledge such to have been om' 
design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting 
in the true Poetic dignity and force : — but the simple 
fact is, that, would we but permit ourselves to look 
into our own souls, we should immediately there discover 
that under the sun there neither exists nor can exist 
any work more thoroughly dignified — more supremely 
noble than this very poem — this poem per se — this 
poem which is a poem and nothing more — this poem 
written solely for the poem's sake. 

With as deep a reverence for the True as ever 
inspired the bosom of man, I would, nevertheless, limit, 
in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I would 
limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by 
dissipation. The demands of Truth are severe. She 
has no sympathy with the myrtles. All that which is 
so indispensable in Song, is precisely all that with which 
she has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her 
a flaunting paradox, to wreathe her in gems and flowers. 
In enforcing a truth, we need severitv rather than 



254 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 

efflorescence of language. We must be simple, precise, 
terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a 
word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as pos- 
sible, is the exact converse of the poetical. He must 
be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical and 
chasmal differences between the truthful and the poeti- 
cal modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad 
beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences, 
shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the obsti- 
nate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth. 

Dividing the world of mind into its three most imme- 
diately obvious distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, 
Taste, and the Moral Sense. I place Taste in the mid- 
dle, because it is just this position which, in the mind, 
it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either 
extreme ; but from the Moral Sense is separated by so 
faint a difference that Aristotle has not hesitated to 
place some of its operations among the virtues them- 
selves. Nevertheless, we find the offices of the trio 
marked with a sufficient distinction. Just as the In- 
tellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us 
of the Beautiful while the Moral Sense is regardful of 
Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the ob- 
ligation, and Keason the expediency. Taste contents 



i 



THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 255 

herself with displaying the charms : — waging war upon 
Vice solely on the ground of her deformity — her dis- 
proportion — her animosity to the fitting, to the appro- 
priate, to the harmonious — in a word, to Beauty. 

An immortal instinct, deep within the spirit of man, 
is thus, plainly, a sense of the Beautiful. This it is 
which administers to his delight in the manifold forms, 
and sounds, and odors, and sentiments amid which he 
exists. And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or 
the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral 
or written repetition of these forms, and sounds, and 
colors, and odors, and sentiments, a duplicate source of 
delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He 
who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, 
or with however vivid a truth of description, of the 
sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and sentiments, 
which greet hm in common with all mankind — he, I 
say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is 
still a something in the distance which he has been 
unable to attain. We have still a thirst unquenchable, 
to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. 
This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is 
at once a consequence and an indication of his peren- 
nial existence It is the desire of the moth for the 



256 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 

star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before 
us — but a wild effort to reacli tlie Beauty alsove. In- 
spired by an ecstatic prescience of the glories beyond 
the grave, we struggle, by multiform combinations 
among the things and thoughts of Time, to attain a 
portion of tiiat Loveliness whose very elements, per- 
haps, appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by 
Poetry — or when by Music, the most entrancing of the 
Poetic moods — we find ourselves melted into tears — we 
weep then — not as the Abbate Gravina supposes — 
through excess of pleasure, but through a certain, 
petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp 
now, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever, those 
divine and rapturous joys, of which through the poem, 
or through the music, we attain to but brief and 
indeterminate glimpses. 

The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness — 
this struggle, on the part of souls fittingly constituted 
— ^has given to the world all that which it (the world) 
has ever been enabled at once to understand and to fee! 
as poetic. 

The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develope 
itself in various modes — in Painting, in Sculpture, in 
Architecture, in the Dance — very especially in Music — 



THE POETIC PRIJfCIPLE. 257 

and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the com- 
position of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, 
however, has regard only to its manifestation in words 
And here let me speak briefly on the topic of rhythm. 
Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its 
various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so 
vast a moment in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected 
— is so vitally important an adjunct, that he is simply 
silly who declines its assistance, I will not now pause to 
maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music, per- 
haps, that the soul most nearly attains the great end 
for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it 
struggles — the creation of supernal Beauty. It may 
be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and then, 
attained in fact. We are often made to feel, with a 
shivering delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken 
notes which cannot have been unfamiliar to the angels. 
And thus there can be little doubt that in the union of 
Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find 
the widest field for the Poetic development. The old 
Bards and Minnesingers had advantages which we do 
not possess — and Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, 
was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them a^ 
poems. 

17 



258 THE POETIC PKINCIPLE. 

To recapitulate, then : — I would define, in brief, the 
Poetry of words as The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. 
Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with 
the Conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless 
incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with 
Duty or with Truth. 

A few words, however, in explanation. That plea- 
sure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating, 
and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, fi'om the 
contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation 
of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that 
pleasurable elevation, or excitement, of the soul, which 
we recognize as the Poetic Sentiment, and which is so 
easily distinguished from Truth, which is the satisfaction 
of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement 
of the heart. I make Beauty, therefore — using the 
word as inclusive of the sublime — I make Beauty the 
province of the poem, simply because it is an obvious 
rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as di- 
rectly as possible from their causes : — no one as yet 
having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar 
elevation in question is at least most readily attainable 
in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that 
the incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, oi 



THE POETIC PEINCIPLE. 259 

even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into 
a poem, and with advantage ; for they may subserve, 
incidentally, in various ways, the general purjjoses of 
the work : — but the true artist will always contrive to 
tone them down in proper subjection to that Beaut if 
which is the atmosphere and the real essence of the 
poem. 

I cannot better introduce the few poems which I 
shall present for your consideration, than by the cita 
tion of the Proem to Mr. Longfellow's " Waif." 



The (lay is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an Eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist ; 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain. 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 



Come, read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 



260 THE POETIC PEINCIPLE. 

Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 



For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Kead from some humbler poet, 
Whose songs gushed from his heart . 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start; 

Wbo through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease. 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 



Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer. 



Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice. 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 



THE I'OETic rKiNcu'ij:. 261 

With uo great range of imagination, tliese lines iiave 
been justly admired for tbeir delicacy of expression. 
Some of the images are very effective. Nothing can 
be better than — 



-The bards sublime, 



Whose distant footsteps echo 
Down the corridors of Time. 



The idea of the last quartraiu is also very effective. 
The poem, on the whole, however, is chiefly to be ad- 
mired for the graceful insouciance of its metre, so well 
in accordance with the character of the sentiments, and 
especially for the ease of the general manner. This 
" ease," or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long- 
been the fashion to regard as ease in appearance alone 
— as a point of really difficult attainment. But not 
so : — a natural manner is difficult only to him who 
should never meddle with it — to the unnatural. It is 
but the result of writing with the understanding, or 
with the instinct, that the tone, in composition, should 
always be that which the mass of mankind would adopt 
— and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occa- 
sion. The author who, after the fashion of "The 



262 THE POETIC PKIKCIPLE. 

North Americau Review," should be, upon all ccca- 
sions, merely " quiet," must necessaril}', upon manii oc- 
casions, be simply silly, or stupid ; aud has uo Uiore 
right to be considered " easy," or " natural," than a 
Cockney exquisite, or than the sleeping Beauty in ihe 
wax-works. 

Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so 
much impressed me as the one which he entitles " June." 
I quote only a portion of it : 



There, through the loug, long summer hours 

The golden hght should lie, 
Aud thick, young herbs and groups of flowers 

Stand iu their beauty by. 
The oriole should build and tell 
His love-talo, close beside my cell ; 

The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife-bee aud humming-bird. 



And what, if cheerful shouts, at uoou, 

Come, from the village sent. 
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, 

With liiiry laughter blent ? 
Aud what if, iu the evening light, 
Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
Of my low monument ? 
I would the lovely scene around 
Might know no sadder Bight nor sound. 



THJi POETIC I'KINCIPLE. 263 

I know, I know I sliould not see 

The season's glorious show, 
Nor would its brightness shine for me, 

Nor its wild music flow • 
But if, around my place of sleep, 
The friends I love should come to weep. 

They might not haste to go. 
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom. 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 

These to their softened hearts should bear 

The thought of what has been. 
And speak of one who cannot share 

The gladness of the scene ; 
Whoso part in all the pomp that fills 
The circuit of the summer hills. 

Is — that his grave is green ; 
And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear again his living voice. 



The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous — noth- 
iog could be more melodious. The poem has always 
affected me iu a remarkable manner. The intense mel- 
ancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface 
of all the poet's cheerful sayings about his grave, we 
find thrilling us to the soul — while there is the truest 
poetic elevation in the thrill. The impression left is 
one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the remaining 
compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be 
more or less of a similar tone always apparent, let me 



204 TUE POETIC PKIXCIPLE. 

rcmiud you thiit (how or why we know not) this certain 
taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the 
higher manifestations of true beauty. It is, never- 
theless, 

A feeling of sadness and longing 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even 
in a poem so full of brilliancy and spirit as the "Health" 
of Edward Coate Pinkney : 



1 fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

Tlic seeming paragon ; 
To whom the bettor elements 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, like the air 

'Tis less of earth than heaven. 



Her every tone is music's own, 

Like those of morning birds, 
And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, 

And from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burden'd bee 

J'orth issue from the rose. 



THE POETIC PKINCIPLE. 265 

Aflectious are as thoughts to her, 

The measures of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy, 

The freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft. 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns. — 

The iJol of past years I 



Of her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain, 
An<l of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain : 
But memory, such as mine of her, 

So very much endears. 
When death is nigh my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 



I fill'd this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon — 
Her health I and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame, 
That life might be all poetry, 

And weariness a name. 

It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been 
born too far south. Had he been a New Ens^lancier 
it is probable that he would have been ranked as the 
first of American lyrists, by that maOTanimous cabal 
M-hich has so Ion? controlled the destinies of American 



26G THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 

Letters, in conducting the thing called "The North 
American Review." The poem just cited is especially 
beautiful ; but the poetic elevation which it induces, we 
must I'efcr chiefly to our sympathy in tlie poet's en- 
thusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the evident 
earnestness with which they are uttered. 

It was by no means my design, howevei, to expatiate 
upon the merits of what I should read you. These will 
necessarily speak for themselves. Boccalini, in his 
"Advertisements from Parnassus," tells us that Zoilus 
once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a 
very admirable book : — whereupon the god asked him 
for the beauties of the work. He replied that he only 
busied himself about the errors. On hearing this, 
Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade 
him pick out all the chaff for his reward. 

Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the 
critics — but I am by no means sure that the god was in 
the right. I am by no means certain that the true lira- 
its of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood. 
Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in 
the light of an axiom, which need only be properly jmt 
to become self-evident. It is not excellence if it require 
to be demonstrated as such : — and thus, to point out 



THE POlillC PRIXCIPLK. 267 

too particularly tlic merits of a work of Art is to admit 
that they are not merits altogether. 

Amoin;^ the " Melodies " of Thomas Moore, is one 
wliose distinguished character as a poem proper seems 
to have been singularly left out of view. I allude to 
his lines beginning — '' Come rest in this bosom." The 
intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by 
anything in Byron. There are two of the lines in which 
a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the all in nil of 
the divine passion of Love — a sentiment which, perhaps, 
has found its echo ia more, and in more passionate hu- 
man hearts, than any other single sentiment ever em- 
bodied in words : 



Coma, rest iu this bosom, my own strickpu door. 
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here ■ 
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, 
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. 



Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same 
Tlirough joy and through torment, through glory and sham.e ', 
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, 
I bi;t know that I love th^i"", whatever thou art. 



Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss. 
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, — 
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue. 
And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there too ,' 



268 THE POETIC PRIXCirLE. 

It has been the fashion of late days to deny ^loore 
Imagiuation, while granting him Fancy — a distinction 
originating with Coleridge — than whom no man more 
fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The 
fact is that the fancy of this poet so far predominates 
over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all 
other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea 
that he is fantnful only. But never was there a greater 
mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of 
a true poet. In the compass of the English language 
I can call to mind no poem more profoundly — more 
wierdly imat/inative, in the best sense, than the lines 
commencing — " I would I were by that dim lake '' — 
which are the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret 
that I am unable to remember them. 

One of the noblest — and, speaking of Fancy, one of 
the most singularly fanciful of modern poets, was 
Thomas Hood. His " Fair Tnes " l;ad always, for me, 
an inexpressible charm : 

saw ye not fair Ines ? 

She's gone into tlio West, 
To dazzle when the sim is down. 

And rob tlie world of rest : 
Sue took our daylight with her, 

The smiles that wo love best, 
With mornins blushes on her check, 

And pearls upon her breast. 



THE POETIC PRIXClPLE. .269 

() turn again, fair lues, 

Bofnii; the fall of niglit, 
For fear the moon should shine a'.one, 

And stars unrivall'd brii,'ht : 
And blessed will the lover he 

That walks beneath their light, 
And breathes the love against thy cheek 

I dare not even write ! 



Would I had been, fair Ines, 

That gallant cavalier 
Who rode so gaily by thy side, 

And whisper'd thee so near I 
Were there no bonny dames at homo, 

Or no true lovers here, 
That he should cross the seas to win 

The dearest of the dear ? 



I saw thee, lovely Ines, 

Descend along the shore. 
With a band of noble gentlemen, 

And banners wav'd before ; 
And gentle youth and maidens gay, 

And snowy plumes they wore ; 
It would have been a beauteous dream, 

— If it had been no more I 



Alas, alas, fair lues. 

She went away with song, 
With Music waiting on her steps, 

And shoutings of the throng ; 
But some were sad and felt no mirth. 

But only Music's wrong, 
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, 

To her you've loved so long. 



270 



THK rOKTIC PXilNClI'LE. 



Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, 

That vessel never bore 
So fair a lady on its deck, 

Nor danced so light before, — 
Alas for pleasure on the sea, 

And sorrow on the shore I 
Thf! smile that blest one lover's heart 

Has broken- many more I 



" The Haunted House," by the same author, is one 
of the truest poems ever written — one of the ti'itest — 
one of tlie most unexceptionable — one of the most 
thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execu- 
tion. It is, moreover, powerfully ideal — imaginative. 
[ regret that its length renders it unsuitable for the 
purposes of this Lecture. In place of it, permit me 
to offer the universally appreciated " Bridge of Sighs." 



One more Unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importuuali'. 
Gone to her death . 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care ; 

Fashioa'd so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair I 

Look at her garments, 
f.linging like cerement* 



Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing ; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. — • 



Touch her not scornfully 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly ; 
Not of the stains of her, 
All that remains of her 
Now, ii5 pure wcmiauly. 



THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 



271 



Mnkn no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 
Rnsli and uudutiful ; 
Past all disbonor, 
Death lias left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family — 
\Viiio those poor lips of hers, 
Oozing so clammily ; 
Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb, 
Her fair auburn tress 'S ; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 

Who was her father ? 
Who was her mother 
Had she a sister ? 
Had she a brother ? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other ? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
or Cliristian charity 
Under the sun I 
' )h I it was pitiful I 
Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
fatherly, motherly, 
Feelings had changed ; 



Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement. 

She stood, with amazement. 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Jlade her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch. 
Or the black flowing river ; 
JIad from life's history. 
Glad to death's mystery 
Swift to be hurl'd— 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world I 

In she plunged boldly. 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran , — 
Over the brink of it. 
Picture it, — think of it. 
Dissolute man I 
Lave in it, drink of it 
Then, if you can i 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ; 
Fashion'd so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair 1 



212 



rHE POETIC rKINCIl'LK. 



Ere hsr limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decenlly, — kiudly, — 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, closo them, 
Staring so blindly I 

Dreadfully staring 
Through muddy impurity. 
As when with the daring 
I^ast look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 



Perishing gloorcily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity. 
Into her rest, — 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly. 
Over her breast I 
Owning her weakness. 
Her evil behavior. 
And leaving, with meekness 
Her sins to her Saviour I 



The vigor of tliis poem is no less remarltable than 
its pathos. The versification, although carrying the 
f.inciful to the very verge of the fantastic, is neverthe- 
less admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is the 
thesis of the poem. 

Among the minor poems of Lord Byron, is one 
which has never received from the critics the praise 
which it undoubtedly deserves : 



Though the day of my destiny's over. 

And the star of my fate hath declined. 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Tliough thy so il with my grief was acquainted. 

It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And Iho love which my spirit hath painted 

rt never halli found but in the''. 



THK POETIC PRINCIPLE. 273 

Thou when nature around me is smiling, 

Tlie last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean. 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion. 

It is that they bear me from Ihee. 



Though the rock of m.v last hope is shivered, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave. 
Though I feel that my soul is delivered 

To pain — it shall not bo its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not coutema - 
Th".y may torture, but shall not subdue me — 

'Tis of Ihee that I tliiuk— not of them. 

Though human, thou didst not deceive me 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
Though loved, thou forborcst to grieve me. 

Though slandered, thou never couldst sluike,— 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim mo, 

Though parted, it was not to fly, 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me 

Nor mute, that the world might belie. 



Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
And if dearly that error hath cost me. 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that whatever it lost me^ 

It could not deprive me of thee. 

13 



274 THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 

From the wrocic of the past, which hath perished, 

Thus much I at least may recall, 
It hath taught me that which I most thcrishod 

Dcsorved to be dearest of all: 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wi'Je waste there st;U is a tree, 
And a bird in the solitude singing, 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 



Although the rhythm, here, is one of the most difiScuIt, 
the versification could scarcely be improved. No no- 
bler theme ever engaged the pen of poet. It is the 
soul-elevating idea, that no man can consider himself 
entitled to complain of Fate while, in his adversity, he 
still retains the unwavering love of woman. 

From Alfred Tennyson — although in perfect sincerity 
I regard him as the noblest poet that ever lived — J 
have left myself time to cite only a very brief speci- 
men. I call him, and think him the noblest of poets — 
not because the impressions he produces are, at all 
times, the most profound — not because the poetical ex- 
citement which he induces is, at all times, the most 
intense — but because it is, at all times, the most ethe- 
real — in other words, tlie most elevating and the most 
pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What 
I am about to read is from his last long ])oem, " Tho 
Princess :" 



THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. 275 

Tears, idle tears, I knnw not what they moan, 
Tears rrom the depth of some divine despair 
Itiso in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 



Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from theundcrworlil, 
Sad as the last which redilens over one 
Tlint sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 



Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To (lying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 



Dear as remomber'd kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
Death in Life, the days that are no more. 



Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect mau- 
uer, I have endeavored to convey to you my concep- 
tion of the Poetic Principle. It has been my purpose 
to suggest that, while this Principle itself is, strictly 
and simply, the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, 
the manifestation of '.he Principle is always found in an 



276 THK POETIC PRINCIPLK. 

elevating excitement of the Soul — quite independent of 
that passion winch is the intoxication of the Heart — • 
or of that Truth which is the satisfaction of the Rea- 
rion. For, in regard to Pa?sion, alas! its tendency is 
to degrade, rather than to elevate the Soul. Love, on 
the contrary — Love — the true, the divine Eros — the 
Uraniau, as distinguished from the Diona;ac Venus — 
is unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical 
themes. And in regard to I'ruth — if, to be sure, 
through the attainment of a truth, we are led to per- 
ceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we 
experience, at once, the true poetical effiict— but this 
eifect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the 
least degree to the truth which merely served to render 
the harmony manifest. 

We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct 
conception of what the true Poetry is, by mere refer- 
ence to a few of the simple elements which induce in 
the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recog- 
nizes the ambrosia which nourishes his soul, in the 
bright orbs that shine in Heaven — in the volutes of 
the flower — in the clustering of low shrubberies — in the 
waving of the grain-fields^u the slanting of tall. Eas- 
tern trees — in the blue distance of mountains — in the. 



TUE rOKl'IC PRIXCIPLE. 277 

grouping of clouds — in the twinkling of half-bidden 
broolis — in the gleaming of silver rivers — in the repose 
of sequestered lakes — in the star-mirroring depths of 
lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of Ijirds — 
in the harp of jEoIus — in the sighing of the night-wind 
— in the repining voice of the forest — in the surf that 
complains to the shore — in the fresh breath of the 
"woods — in the scent of the violet — in the voluptuous 
perfume of the hyacinth — in the suggestive odor that 
comes to him, at eventide, from far-distant, undiscovered 
islands, over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored. 
He owns it in all noble thoughts — in all unworldly mo- 
tives — in all holy impulses — in all chivalrous, generous, 
and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of 
woman — in the grace of her step — in tjie lustre of her 
eye — in the melody of her voice — in her soft laughter 
— in her sigh — in the harmony of tlie rustling of her 
robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments 
— in her burning enthusiasms — in her gentle charities — 
in her meek and devotional endurances — but above all 
— ah, far above all — he kneels to it — he worships it in 
the fixithjin the purity, in the strength,, in the altogether 
divine majesty — of her love. 
Let me conclude — by the recitation of yet another 



278 THE POETIC PKIXCIPLE. 

brief poem — one very different in character from any 
that I have before quoted. It is by Motherwell, and 
is called " The Song of the Cavalier." With oui 
modern and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity 
and impiety of warfare, we are not precisely in that 
frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the 
sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence 
of the poem. To do this fully, we must identify our- 
selves, in fancy, with the soul of the old cavalier. 



Then mounfe I then mounte, brave gallants, all, 

And rton your helmes amaiue ; 
Teathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call 

Us to the field againe. 
No shrewish toares shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt's in our hand, — 
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe 

For the fayrcst of the land ; 
lySt piping swaiue, and craven wight. 

Thus weepe and puling crye, 
Our business is like men to fight, 

And hero-like to di«. 



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tional Poems. Handsomely printed on laid tinted paper 
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*■ A more ciiarming companion (in the shape of a bouk) can scarcely bo found." — 
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'' They are amueing sketches, gay and sprightly in iheir character, exldhiting greal 
facility of composition, and considerable powers of satire," — Hartford Courant, 

" There isa brilliant play of fancy in ' Lillian,' and a moving tenderness in * Joseph 
!no,' for which it would be hard to finri eqiiala. \Ve welcome this elegant friition of 
l^raed." — Albany i^^press, 

"As ft writer oi vera de socicie, he is pronounced to be without an equal among 
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ALSO A BEAUTIFUL EDITION OP 

PR^ED'S POEMS, 

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LAYS OF THE 
SCOTTISH CAVALIERS. 

By William E, Aytoun, Professor of Literature and 
Belles-Lettres ia the University of Edinburgh, ynd 
Editor of Blackwood's Magazine. A new edition, ou 
fine la'd tinted paper, handsomely bound. 16mo, cloth 
extra, $1 75; halfeali; $3 50, 

"S'Qce Lockbart and Macaulay'a ballade, we have had uo nietucal work to be com 
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^ief historical incidents of Scottish h'story — literally in * thoughts that breathe ti.6 
words that bum.' They are full of lyric energy, graphic description, and genuhie 
feeling." — Home Journal. 

"The fine ballad of * Montrose' in this collection, is alone worth the price of ihc 
?>Ook," — Boston Transcript. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

(INCLUDING FIRMILIAN). 
By Bon Gaultier (W. E. Aytoun ard Theodore 
Maetin.) 
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" Here is a book for everj-body who loves claaaic fun. ;i is niadp up of ballads of ;ill 
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time, from the thundering versification of Lockbart and Macaulay, to the sweetest and 
Eimp leat strains of Wordsworth and Teimys..u. The author ia oac of the Grst scholare, 
cjid <)ne of the most tinished writers uf the day, and this proJuctiou is but the frolic ti 
Ma pcnius in play-time." — Courier and En.'uirer. 

** We do not know to whom belongs this nom de plume^ bnt he is certainly a h'Uiior 
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The world owes him a debt of gratitude." 



INGOLDSBY LEGENDS; 

OR, MIRTH AND MARVELS. 

By the Rev. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM 
(Thomas Ingoldsby). 

W ith 16 wood-cuts by Leech and Cruikshank. 
S vols. cro^Ti 8vo, cloth extra, $3.50 ; half calf, 7.00. 

These inimitable volumes of rollicking fun must remain standtird 
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jOpicB before publication. 

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A Sew and Elesaut Library Kdition 

THE NOCTES "AMBROSIANil. 

BY 

Prof. Wilson* ('* Christopher 'iSuvth^^ o^ Blackwood)^ 
J. G. LocKHART, James Hogg, and Dr. Maginx. 

Remed and Edited with Notes, by Du. R. SHELTON 
MACKENZIE. 
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that it is believed that the American render is thereby made as familiar with everv 
one mentioned in that curious specimen of satirical writinp as were the inhabibints oj 
Auld Reekie on the fatal morn m October, lS!7, when it was first given to the world. 
"The work, too, is beautifully printed on laid paper, with just a euspiciuii of creano 
tint, ami substantially bound in cloth. It is one of the best •jot un books that New 
York has sent out for a lon<; time, and indeed has an air of English e1eg:Hn<*e that 
rould Jo credit to Murray or Longman." -Literary Gazette. 

GHRBSTOPHER MORTH. 

A. Memoir of Prof. Wilson', from Family Papers and other 
sources, by his Daughter, Mrs. Gordox. Uuiform with 
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